Who's Laughing Now?
by Reichenbach
Summary: NOW FINISHED. The Joker intrudes upon the lives of the Batclan in a very personal way.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. They're owned by DC Comics. I am doing this strictly for my own amusement, and the amusement of those around me.  
  
Story Synopsis: The Joker intrudes upon the lives of the Batclan in a very personal way.  
  
Feedback: Always welcome, and always appreciated. Critical feedback is also welcome. Please remember, however, that I am by no means a professional. While I do constantly strive to improve my writing, I AM doing this for fun as well.  
  
Author's Note: Firstly, thanks to Patty for listening to my insane ramblings and instilling some healthy humility in me now and again. Thanks to Robin for a fresh perspective, and to Charlene for being my little encouragement bunny. And thanks to my brother for occasionally letting me use his computer in the effort to finish this fic and evade my parents when over their house.  
  
  
  
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Who's Laughing Now?  
  
Prologue  
  
**  
  
".... a clown is the greatest actor in  the world : from the dramatic to the absurd, from hilarity to pathos. When one reaches clown in its pure sense he can entertain anyone, anywhere. Clowns are the gods of comedy." -- JANGO EDWARDS, International Clown  
  
  
  
  
  
Bruce Wayne entered Wayne Manor a little after two in the afternoon on a fine spring day, his newspaper folded out to the comics section and tucked under his arm. For all intents and purposes, he was ditching his last meeting of the day because of the lull and call of spring. In all actuality, he had several backlogged cases that were in need of Batman's attention.  
  
There was also a small part of him that really didn't want to go to that meeting.  
  
Smiling at his duplicity, he turned the brass handle of the door to his study, and gently pushed it opened.  
  
"Wow! Your muscles really DO move like that!" a bone chilling voice said.  
  
For a moment, Bruce kept his eyes closed, praying it was some sort of joke.  
  
"Aww, come on. You gotta look. It's no fun if you don't look."  
  
Fortifying himself, he opened his eyes. Behind his oversized mahogany desk, in full magenta regalia sat the Joker. Bruce Wayne stood tall in his expensively cut suit, and attempted to put on his game face. The other one. "Can I help you?" he asked, trying to sound pleasant. His eyes clouded over with the familiar air of 'Brucie' Wayne, nice guy but not very bright. Within him, Batman was on fire.  
  
The Joker's fire engine red lips pulled back further in a hideous grin the shape of a Nordic ship. He tipped his purple fedora, something akin to mirth playing in his eyes. "Oh please. We're old friends. You hate me, I hate you—don't go trying to get all 'business transition' on me. It's an insult to all we've shared."  
  
Briefly, he contemplated how much damage jumping across the desk at the Joker would do. "I don't even KNOW you," Brucie announced. "You're that Joker fellow, right? Aren't you supposed to be in Arkham?" Oracle had systems that should have alerted them to any change in the Joker's status.  
  
"Come on, Batty," the Joker said mockingly.  
  
Bruce's teeth clenched together behind relaxed lips. He had nightmares that started like this. Finally, he found the breath to speak. Relaxing his jaw, he tried to maintain Brucie's air of indifference. "Really—you've got it all wrong. I'm Bruce, and that's my desk. And I really don't know how you got in here, but unless you have some business, I really think you'd better go." If he leapt across the desk, he'd run the risk of breaking the snow globe that acted as his paperweight. It wasn't that he liked snow globes—but it had been his mother's. There'd also be the inevitable destruction of the leather chair… But he was out of options.  
  
"Oh, I have business," the clown said darkly. "I have several entrepreneurial endeavors I'm currently undertaking."  
  
Bruce continued to try to play dumb. He wasn't sure how successful he was being at this juncture. "Is this about money?" He could handle blackmail. There were protocols for this…  
  
The Joker swiveled in the chair slightly. The springs creaked just a bit, and his pasty white hand wrapped around the snow globe. "Really, Batty—I didn't think you were a pink-rose-in-glass kind of guy. Who'da guessed you have a sensitive side?" The Joker tossed the globe like a softball, catching it twice in his piano-player hands. "Eh, you but have one in there SOMEWHERE. It's the part that keeps all the little brats hanging around your knees. Which brings me to the reason for my visit. My business—killing those little brats. Too bad about Jason, eh?"  
  
"Jason died in an accident," Bruce replied too quickly. He tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry.  
  
The leering clown leaned forward on the desk, delighted in the situation he now found himself to be in. "Yup. It was all just a horrible accident… my crowbar connecting with his head. OVER and OVER."  
  
Without thinking, the mask of Brucie Wayne, waste of human flesh fell. If he hit his target in the abdomen, he could retrieve the snow globe, and be damned with the chair. His father had never liked the chair anyway.  
  
"Uh uh uh. No touchy Unkie Joker," the insane man replied, seeing the change come over his adversary. "I don't walk outta here, Robin number three is gonna get it."  
  
Bruce had been easing his weight forward, preparing to strike. Upon hearing this, his kinetic energy froze, like fish in a lake.  
  
"That kid is annoying. He's got absolutely NO personality, let me tell you. Shortpants, at least he had the stupid puns going for him. That and a killer left hook. By the way, I'm still bitter about that whole killing me thing. And Jason—the kid was all bark and no bite. Guess I showed him, huh? But this new kid? All responsibility, bla bla bla. NO fun at all. The dear little angel DESERVES to be blown sky high."  
  
Still wanting to strike out, Bruce didn't move. He saw the folds of fabric in the Joker's silk suit and knew that he was carrying something in his breast pocket—something rectangular, and yet not box-like. It could well be a detonator of some sort. He'd let the Joker leave, then he'd follow, and find Timothy.  
  
No matter how much he ached to act, no matter how his fists longed for retribution, he needed to remain inert. Not when he couldn't be assured of the boy's safety. He didn't doubt he could get to the device in the pocket before the Joker would. What he could not vouch for was any contingency plans that may have been already put into place.  
  
"That's a good Brucie," The Joker crooned as he rose to his feet, still holding the globe in his hands, the base pointed skyward. "See? There is a mushy pink roses side to you after all." He stepped from around the desk. "Well, it's been real. And as a parting gift…" he tossed the globe into the air one more time, and let it fall in front of him.  
  
Bruce's eyes clenched shut as the glass shattered against the wooden floor. It was followed with the terrible crunch of porcelain being ground beneath leather heals. "Well, it's a mushy rose. Pink isn't your color anyways."  
  
Continued in Part I  
  
  
  
"As the Straight Whiteface is the more "traditional" clown, the Grotesque Whiteface, also known as the Comedy Whiteface, is today the most common Whiteface clown. When performing with the Auguste and/or Tramp, this clown will remain in charge, setting up the routine, throwing rather than taking the pie, slap or kick. Although more comical than the Straight Whiteface, this clown is a bit more reserved than the impish and gregarious Auguste."  
  
--Dana J. Montgomery 


	2. Chapter One

See disclaimers in prologue  
  
Who's Laughing Now?  
  
Part One  
  
**  
  
"Clowns are of human nature. Clowns are not representations of fictional characters. Clowns are not figments of the imagination. We are human, we are real and we are alive. The clown is an essential part of our human soul. We nurture and care for the clown in us so that it always continues to grow." --Clown Creed, 2000  
  
~*~  
  
Bruce Wayne stood rooted in the doorway of his study. He felt the Joker walk past him. If it was possible for a being to radiate evil, this man did. He'd cost Bruce as much as a human being could take away from another.  
  
Slowly, Bruce turned his eyes to the broken metal base and the puddle of liquid mixed with fake snow and the obliterated light pink porcelain rose. Watching the water spread for half a second, he swallowed his pain and threw aside the paper, and his dark Armani jacket. He had work to do.  
  
Realizing he was out of time and options, he tore opened the bottom drawer of his desk, not caring about the drawer. Beneath the false bottom lay a brown package the size of a large text book. Withdrawing it, he kicked what was left of the drawer closed and rushed to the nearest window. As he opened the French doors and jumped down onto the lawn, he tore open the brown paper and began filling his pockets with the contents. A utility belt was sorely missed, given the current situation, but he'd make do with what he had. Hitting the wet green grass, he sped around that wing of the house, past the fountain and over the hedges—a semi-short cut to the driveway. Sure enough, at the bottom sat a black car.  
  
Stepping into it, the Joker looked up the hill and waved. Bruce took off as fast as he could, looking to clear the trees that lined the drive. As soon as he was free, his shoes skidded to a stop on the asphalt as the door closed.  
  
As hard as he could, he threw a Batarang at the license plate. The car pulled off, but the electromagnet inside helped it catch the bumper and stayed on for several seconds, before dying and clanking to the ground amidst the brown gas emitted from the exhaust of the fleeing vehicle.  
  
Bruce had them.  
  
Without bothering to retrieve the evidence of the encounter off the road, he immediately went back to the house. As he did so, he tore something else from his pocket. Powering up the device, the LCD lit without hesitation, and he saw the tracking piece that had been placed on the vehicle before the Batarang had dropped off. He clearly saw the line of the car's movements as he headed back into the city.  
  
Entering the study through the already-opened French windows, Bruce headed immediately for the clock against the furthest wall, and down to the cave. He had no idea what kind of game the Joker was playing this time, but he would NOT be party to it, nor would he let Robin be.  
  
Not when the rules had suddenly so drastically changed.  
  
It was well before Batman's usual time to be out and about—but there were always circumstances that dictated exceptions.  
  
* * *  
  
The Car, a long, black vehicle, both unique yet unidentifiable shot out of the holographic rocky façade at the base of the cliff that ran along the shore. The dark automobile sped through the afternoon sun and down the two- lane road that hugged the coast, towards the city.  
  
Within, the Dark Knight gripped the steering wheel tightly, his mind grinding away at the problem at hand.  
  
"Oracle," he said aloud. The voice recognition software made the connection for him.  
  
"What can I do for you, Boss?" Barbara Gordon's chipper voice asked. That alone told him much—and complicated his situation far worse.  
  
"Do a security check of Arkham," he ordered. "While you're doing that, give me Robin's last known location." The homing device that had been attached to the Joker's car suddenly stopped, near midtown. Moenech wasn't one of the Joker's usual hangouts.  
  
Oracle's voice cut into his thoughts. "Timmy's walking the widdle puppy dog at Brentwood. Want me to hail him?"  
  
"Arkham?" Batman asked. He turned off the secluded Coast Drive about a mile and a half east of his target.  
  
"Everything looks good there. What's up?" Barbara's voice held a bit of curiosity and amusement.  
  
Batman wished he had answers for her. "Status on the Joker?"  
  
"You're REALLY paranoid, you know? He's been in 'therapy' all afternoon. Personally, I think the electroshock is a waste." The only kind of electrocution Barbara wanted to see the Joker face was from the electric chair—though she'd never say that out loud to any one. Not after all they'd recently been through with Dick, and how he'd actually beat the Joker to death.  
  
"Send me the video feed!" Batman ordered.  
  
"Are you going to start talking, or WHAT?" Barbara asked as two monitors lit up between the seats. "These are security cameras sixty-seven and sixty- nine. Now what's going on?"  
  
He stared at the black and white images of the Joker, straight-jacketed and giggling inanely as they removed the electrodes from his forehead.  
  
"What time did it start," he asked as he glanced form the monitors to the road, then back again.  
  
"One-thirty. Is there something I should be looking for?"  
  
"Put me through to Timothy," he ordered. There was a moment of static, and then he could hear the connection being made.  
  
"What's up?" Tim whispered.  
  
"Is everything all right there," he asked. He hated how the words tasted in his mouth, suddenly.  
  
"The Dean's dog just chewed a hole in my pants, which Alfred's going to have a bird about, but other than that, life's as peachy as it could be in Brentwood Detentionary. You need me to do some work?" The young man sounded anxious to escape his current surroundings.  
  
Without responding to Oracle or Robin, he cut the connections.  
  
Already knowing what he'd find at the 900 block of Moenech Avenue, he continued on his course. Sure enough, the car was abandoned in front of a vacant business at 913 W. Moenech Ave. There was no sign of the Joker or anyone else for that matter. They were thirteen miles from Arkham Asylum. Whatever was happening—the game was afoot.  
  
~*~  
  
Continued in Part Two  
  
"Since the early days of the circus and sideshows, people have been afraid of the clown and the clown's persona….A few studies that have attempted to remedy this fear have proven that the fear of clowns is more difficult to remove than the fear of loosing a limb in a freak elevator accident." –argonews.com 


	3. Chapter Two

See disclaimers and thankyou's in prologue.  
  
Who's Laughing Now?  
  
Part 2  
  
**  
  
"The art of clowning has existed for thousands of years. A pygmy clown performed as a jester in the court of Pharaoh Dadkeri-Assi during Egypt's Fifth Dynasty about 2500 B.C. Court jesters have performed in China since 1818 B.C.  
  
"Throughout history most cultures have had clowns. When Cortez conquered the Aztec Nation in 1520 A.D. he discovered Montezuma's court included jesters similar to those in Europe. Aztec fools, dwarf clowns, and hunchbacked buffoons were among the treasures Cortez took back to Pope Clement VII. Most Native American tribes had some type of clown character. These clowns played an important role in the social and religious life of the tribe, and in some cases were believed to be able to cure certain diseases." --COAI  
  
~*~  
  
  
  
It was two in the afternoon when Dick Grayson woke on the ancient, threadbare couch of his Bludhaven apartment. He couldn't remember why he didn't crawl into bed, or where his clothes were. Squinting in the light streaming in through opened blinds, he rolled off the scratchy yellow and orange material and dragged his stiff body to a standing position and readjusted his boxers, feeling the imprint of the ancient sofa material on his back.  
  
Rubbing one eye, he contemplated the pile of dirty dishes in the sink of his woefully-retro, over-painted kitchenette. He could do them today. He SHOULD do them today. But he probably wouldn't. Like the rest of the mess, it would probably sit there until Alfred snuck in one afternoon and cleaned it. He'd feel bad when that happened, but this was a vicious cycle. His perpetual laziness followed by Alfred's perpetual need to make sure his charges weren't overtaken by garbage. There were some things in the universe that were as they should be.  
  
Pushing fast food containers away from his laptop, he turned it on to see if anything had happened while he'd been sleeping. He only had one day off this week, and he really needed to maximize it.  
  
He could leisurely get dressed and be out the door by four, he theorized. He was due to pick the brat up at five, and then they were going to party and patrol. He wasn't a brat… persay. Dick did enjoy spending time with Tim Drake. The kid could just be a serious drain sometimes.  
  
Were the situation different, he'd probably sleep until seven, then go on patrol, or stop in and visit his psudo-girlfriend, piss her off, then hit the rooftops. Right now, he was seeing Timmy five days a week, and he longed a little for 'grownup' company.  
  
But he agreed with Bruce.  
  
Until they found out HOW the Joker was getting out of Arkham, and if it was, in fact, the Joker who'd been making his presence known these last two weeks, Tim was under lock and key.  
  
"Got any news for me?" Dick grumbled at the floating head on his computer screen.  
  
"The whole universe came to an end while you were sleeping," Oracle informed him.  
  
Dick frowned. "Got anything that isn't news?" Briefly, he wonder what the half-life of French-fries were. There were some in the bottom of this bag…  
  
"Nope. Couple of murders near the docks you can probably check out tonight. Gotham's been same-old-same-old. Mayor has decided to give property tax breaks to any new businesses that want to come into the suicide slum section. Not that that's going to help the area. My dad's coming back from Florida tomorrow, and Ted Kord and I had passionate monkey-sex on the roof of Bruce's--"  
  
She was pleased when Dick's head shot up out of the greasy paper bag he'd been investing himself in. "WHAT?"  
  
"Gotcha. Like I said, nothing's really been happening. Dad and I are going out to dinner when he comes back into town, why don't you come with?"  
  
Dick opened his mouth to speak, but didn't say anything. He'd been DYING for confirmation that they were 'official,' but this was SUCH a bad time. "Hey, I'm trying to keep my schedule a little free. How's about I tentatively say YES, unless something comes up?"  
  
On the other side, Barbara eyed his image skeptically. "There's something up with you and Bruce. It's nice to see you getting along, but not when I'm left out of the loop."  
  
Dick shrugged innocently. "Aww, babe, its just weird male bonding rituals."  
  
"Dick, keep an eye on him, ok? He's getting really weird about the Joker." That was to say the least. He'd ordered her to start feeding Arkham security videos directly into his office computer, and both of his cars until further notice.  
  
Running a hand through his hair, he tried to explain in some fashion that wouldn't alarm Little Miss Paranoia. "It's like a month until the anniversary of Jason's death. He's gonna get a little weird, OK?"  
  
"What's your excuse?" Barbara asked skeptically.  
  
He loved her, but this wasn't helping right now. "I'm just in conspiracy with him to drive you nuts. Look, I gotta go pick up the Gipper from Brentwood. I'll see you then, and we can duke this out all proper-like."  
  
"You stopping in here?" Barbara asked, a touch of hopefulness in her voice.  
  
He could have kicked himself. He'd been waiting for that kind of anxious tone from her for like a year. Who'd have known all he had to do was play hard to get. "Keep a window opened for me." He hated lying to her like that—he had no intention of stopping in. That was something else he agreed with Bruce on—they needed to cut down on their association with other folks, especially Barbara. Of all the people who did NOT need to be dragged into this problem, it was Barbara.  
  
She was someone who'd also lost enough to the Joker and didn't need any further provocation, nor did she need attention drawn to her, and her connection to their family. It still killed him that the Joker knew. He'd spent a lot of time worrying over the last few weeks over what was coming, and what they could do to stop it.  
  
"Anyways," Dick added. "Gotta take a bath. As you can see, my clothes got sick of me and walked away. Haveta get the mail too. I'll log back on when I'm done with that, ok?"  
  
Behind the veneer of Oracle's spinning head, Barbara smiled. He was such a pest, but he was HER pest. "Get going, Grayson. I can smell you from here." She saved him the burden of protracted goodbyes and hung up on him. It was the only way she could get him offline sometimes.  
  
Taking his time in the shower, Dick found something relatively clean, and then headed down to the mailroom. He wondered how Tim would feel about spending quality time at the Laundromat tonight. It'd be good for the kid to catch the other side of humanity—some folks didn't have Alfred staying at Brentwood, doing the washing and ironing.  
  
Barely remembering to grab his key as he flew out of the apartment, a bare- footed Dick Grayson shot down the hall and practically leapt down the steps. He was expecting a CD in the mail. He did realize how pathetic getting that excited was, but three floors later, he still dashed across the lobby and into the mail room.  
  
Contents of mail box: two bills, one piece of junk mail, and a nondescript yellow envelope from Gotham. It was probably something stupid from Bruce's lawyers about God knew what. He couldn't keep up with that stuff.  
  
The phone was due the fifteenth, the cable was due the twenty-second, he'd take care of those later. He tore up the post card about free contacts without reading it. Dick didn't have much, just his eyesight, and his teeth. He wasn't anxious to contemplate losing either.  
  
Walking up the steps, he tore opened the yellow envelope. He'd have to call those lawyer guys later. You'd think the paperwork would stop with the adoption. They always kept thinking up something else to bug him about.  
  
Pulling the single sheet out, he knew it wasn't lawyer stuff.  
  
Stopping on the landing of the third floor, he unfolded the white Arkham cardstock.  
  
The handwriting was in pencil—a jagged scrawl he was familiar with.  
  
Leaning against the cinderblock wall of the stairwell, Dick held his breath as he read.  
  
How's my favorite Robin doing? It began without preamble. Dick wiped one sweaty palm on his pants. Changing hands with the paper, he grabbed it between just two fingers and wiped the other palm before continuing.  
  
I'm sure Unkie Joker's the last person you thought you'd hear from. Oh wait, never mind, you and the Bat Freak talk. Anyways, just because you killed me doesn't mean we can't still talk. I've been meaning to ask, how'd it feel to kill? I know you Bat-folks're all hung up on that. But it was nice, wasn't it? Got a rush off it, didn't you? There's always a rush when you do it with you bare hands. Now you know how I felt when I killed Jason.  
  
There was more, but Dick had to stop reading. His eyes filled with tears, and his head slammed against the grey bricks. Composing himself, he took the steps two at a time back to his apartment, slammed the key in the lock and wrenched the door opened.  
  
Wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve, he found his shoes and dashed back out with them cradled in his arm like a football.  
  
  
  
Continued in Part Three  
  
  
  
"We must not force artificial constrictions on the development and advancement of clowning simply in the name of tradition." –Clown Creed 


	4. Chapter Three

Who's Laughing Now?  
  
Part 3  
  
**  
  
Pierrot: Usually a young and honest but not too bright valet, he is a butt for the jokes of his fellow male actors and an unsuccessful suitor for the hand of the female lead. Originally he wore a loose white jacket and had his face powdered white. In the 19th century he featured in French pantomime, becoming an increasingly melancholy and pathetic figure.  
  
~*~  
  
Tim Drake opened his window and leaned on the sill lazily. "Master of stealth, you are not. I heard you when you came through the bushes. And you're like an hour early, by the way."  
  
Dick grabbed him by the shirt collar and dragged him out the window. "Yeah, well, we're going to Bludhaven now. I don't care if your homework is done."  
  
"Yes, Bruce," he mocked cheerfully. He had no idea why Dick was his best pal all of a sudden, but he liked it.  
  
Dick grabbed him by the hair and smiled, trying to push that attitude away. The kid wasn't supposed to know what was going on. That'd only make the situation worse, and harder. It would complicate it seven ways to Tuesday, and it wouldn't solve anything.  
  
"You want me to feed you or not?" Dick asked nonchalantly.  
  
Tim pulled his hair out of his friend's hand. "Geeze, hit a guy where it hurts." He started crawling back through the window. Hitting the carpeted floor, he wiped his hands on each other, and then looked at the smudges of pollution and dust now gracing them. "I gotta change, grab my stuff. You can either stand out there, or you can come inside." Even as the boy spoke, he was already digging through his closet. It wasn't often that the private school student got to wear clothing besides the standard suit and tie.  
  
Grabbing clothing off of hangers, he began tearing off his school uniform and throwing it on to the bed. Behind him, he could hear Dick entering the room.  
  
"Is Alfred ironing your jeans too," his friend asked casually as he glanced quickly out the window, past the bushes and to the immaculate grounds of Brentwood Academy for Boys.  
  
"I think I convinced him that it was unnecessary," Tim lied. If he tried to do that, Alfred would simply convince him that his jeans really DID need ironed. "Anyways, you should stick around. Alfred should be back soon."  
  
Turning around, and facing the interior of the inadequately lit room, Dick looked at his watch. Friday was "restocking day" at Doc Leslie's clinic. He had a feeling Alfred was doing more than restocking medical supplies, but never said anything.  
  
"I would, Squirt, but I wanna get the hell out of Dodge, if that's ok with you." Dick sat down on the kid's impeccably made bed and bounced a little. How could Tim sleep on a bed that was only marginally better than a slab of cold stone? He was extremely grateful that Bruce had never sent HIM to boarding school.  
  
Of course, his father knew where he'd spent his nights. Tim's father didn't. All he knew was that his son was a delinquent, in need of reeducation. At least the boy thought that was the worst of his problems. He didn't know how dangerous things really were.  
  
"Daddy-bats giving you a hard time?" Tim tried a green shirt, but didn't like it with his hair, so he dug out a blue one. He woke up with bed-head this morning and had to use excessive amounts of gel, and his hair just wasn't cooperating, or matching his clothes today.  
  
"Oh my GOD. I know GIRLS who don't spend as much time--"  
  
The phone rang once. "Hold that thought. And leave my clothes alone." Tim pulled up the receiver. "Still here, dad," Tim said. His dad liked to call once a day to check and make sure his son was still at school, and still bored out of his mind. With Wesley visiting family this week, and Dick in his room, Tim's dad was the only person who could be calling.  
  
"Aww, isn't that precious," a sickeningly sweet voice announced on the other end.  
  
Tim could feel all the color draining out of his face, and into his stomach. That's why it felt like he was going to throw up right now, right?  
  
"I think you have the wrong number," Tim said quietly.  
  
"Oh no, Boy Blunder, I have the right number. But you never WERE as quick as your predecessors, were you?"  
  
Helplessly, Tim slowly turned and looked to Dick. His friend was sitting on the bed, wiping the windowsill dust from his hands to his light-blue jeans.  
  
"Anyways, I'll make the call short. I was just looking for a little advice. I was wondering if I should kill you, so Batman can get a more interesting Robin. I was hoping for the little quips again. Or, I can kill Batman and Nightwing and you can be all alone. Any preferences?" The Joker took in a sucking breath then began laughing inanely.  
  
The hideous bellowing laughs rung in Tim's head, until he worked up the courage to slam the receiver down. For a moment, he just stared at Dick in worried shock.  
  
Looking at the boy, his sea-sick face and his suddenly sullen look, Dick had a good guess what had happened. "Who was that?" he asked anyways. Just in case.  
  
"Th-the Joker," Tim chirped, his voice cracking.  
  
Dick stomped his foot on the floor, disgust creeping in. He knew what it was, but he'd been happier when he'd been able to delude himself just a little longer. "Shit." He and Bruce had been hoping the Joker didn't know Tim's identity. That was why he'd come through the window.  
  
Tim frowned, suddenly more angry than shocked. "Why do I have a feeling you're not telling me something? These frequent visits aren't cause I'm so cool to hang out with, ARE they?"  
  
Dick sighed. He hated lying to the boy. "Tim, the Joker knows. He knows, and he's playing the identity card. OK? We didn't want to tell you because we didn't want to make it more complicated than it is, because no one else knows. We were TRYING to handle this internally."  
  
"Hello? I'm the SIDEKICK? A little KNOWLEDGE would be good," Tim complained. He pulled the backpack containing his uniform and equipment from the bottom of his closet.  
  
Dick didn't have anything to say—he agreed with Bruce's reasons, but he understood Tim's frustration with being left out. "Surprise! You know now. Congrats. You know the secret. The Secret That Sucks."  
  
Tim shook his head and readjusted the bag on his back while he headed towards the window. "We're not going back to Bludhaven tonight, are we?" He decided that he'd really rather work on the case at hand. Especially since he really didn't LIKE either of the options the Joker had given him.  
  
"I guess we meet up with Bruce," Dick said as he rose from the bed and followed. "And we tell him what happened. Welcome to the case." He grabbed Tim's bag and tossed it out the window and to the side, then grabbed hold of the dusty sill. Without hesitation, he dove out the window and onto the mulch below.  
  
Continued in part 4  
  
And thus I clothe my naked villainy  
  
With old odd ends, stol'n out of holy writ,  
  
And seem a saint when most I play the devil.  
  
--Shakespeare, Richard III 


	5. Chapter Four

Who's Laughing Now?  
  
Part Four  
  
**  
  
The medieval court fool was seldom mentally deficient. For the freedom to indulge in satire, tricks, and repartee, many men of keen insight and caustic wit obtained powerful patronage by assuming the role of fool. –The Columbia Encyclopedia, Sixth Ed.  
  
~*~  
  
Batman sat with his back to his charges in the Cave, glaring at the computer. There really wasn't much information to behold there, but a part of him could not face them. "Provisions have been made for your father and step mother," he informed the youngest of their company. "He is away on business in Switzerland, she has accompanied him. He believes it is for the acquisition of a small French firm—which is partially true. He just doesn't know it is a Wayne Enterprises subsidiary."  
  
The boy nodded, some modicum of relief brought to his suddenly anxiety- ridden existence. He ran his forest-green gloved finger beneath the gold- trimmed black collar of his cape. Usually the cave was cool, even a bit chilly—but since this had all began he'd been sweating profusely. Or since it had begun for HIM, at least.  
  
"And you, Richard," Batman began again. "You should reconsider taking leave from your 'other' job until this is rectified. For the safety of those around you."  
  
Nightwing folded his arms across his chest and gave half a curt nod. "I will reconsider." Normally, he would have found a thousand excuses, but now wasn't the time for excuses, squabbling, or even delicate sensibilities.  
  
"I will pay the Joker another visit tonight," Batman added.  
  
Walking to an ill-lit table near the weapons vaults, Nightwing shook his head. "You think you'll get something out of him this time that you didn't get the other two visits?" He turned on the lamp and inspected a large pink and orange box that had arrived at Bruce Wayne's office from the joker two days previous.  
  
Anxiously, Robin looked back and fort from Batman to Nightwing, his panic finding renewed vigor. "You… you've been there TWICE? And we don't know anything more?" His hands wrapped around the edges of his cape, and he twisted them nervously.  
  
"This time I'm going in with help. I'll talk to him. Do my thing. Nightwing, I want you to see if you can find any obvious breaches in security, any loopholes that could be enabling the Joker to be doing what he's doing.  
  
"What about me?" Robin asked anxiously.  
  
"You're staying here," Batman ordered.  
  
"Wait!" the boy protested. "You can't do that! My dad--" not to mention the two people he looked up to most in the world—were in danger.  
  
"ROBIN," Batman announced sternly. His voice echoed off the walls of the cave, and came back to assault the young man again. "Obey me without question," the Dark Knight said, reiterating one of his primary rules.  
  
Bitterly, Robin pressed his lips together. How long had it been since they'd worked together on any great task? He'd been flying solo so long, and now recently, running with Nightwing, that he didn't even remember what it was like to work with him. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he joined Nightwing at the long dissection table. Inspecting the oversized box, he found a crank on the side.  
  
He quickly turned it one full rotation before Nightwing could pull his hand away. The lid snapped opened and a stuffed Nightwing doll, similar to the one next to Barbara's computer shot out, like a jack-in-the-box. The body bobbed back and forth on its cloth-covered spring, a kitchen knife from Wayne Manor stuck through the chest.  
  
"Make him let me go," Tim whispered.  
  
Nightwing looked from the morbid toy to the young man he thought of as family. "I'm not making him do anything," he answered quietly.  
  
Batman's chair turned around, and he stared at the two young men. "You will be monitoring our activity from the Cave," he informed Robin.  
  
Robin's teeth ground together to keep from protesting. He didn't dare even turn to look back at Batman. Dick and Bruce expected him to just keep out of this, obviously.  
  
"You'll also be rerouting security feeds with some previously prepared tracks into Oracle's systems."  
  
Tim was sure he'd stopped breathing. "You want me to screw with Oracle's systems," he stated. Did Bruce understand how IMPOSSIBLE that was?  
  
"I have several protocols which previously required granting myself access to Oracle's systems. We will be using those already-established hacks."  
  
Behind his mask, Tim's eyes blinked blankly. "You just regularly hack Barbara's machines," he stated.  
  
The slightest hint of a smile appeared on Batman's thin, staunch lips. "Only when she has something that I need." He turned back to the computer and began pulling up various programs to show Robin. "She isn't to find out about this mission—or situation—until we have some handle on it."  
  
Slowly, Tim approached the computer, staring at the lines of code. "This is so messed up," he muttered to himself.  
  
"Yeah," Nightwing answered, leaning against the table—next to the mutilated image of himself. "You can say that again, Timbo. You can say that again."  
  
* * *  
  
Batman sent his two protégé's to the kitchen to eat before tonight's mission. They could have just have easily eaten in the cave—especially since they'd been in costume. But right now, he needed a few moments. He wasn't used to always having them clamoring around him—filling up the cave with their exuberant presence.  
  
It was good to have them. He just wished it were under better circumstances. Walking over to the dissection table, he pushed the impaled doll back in the box and closed the lid. To the left of the box were a few other items, which Tim had thankfully overlooked.  
  
His gloved hands reached out and touched the cassette tape containing the vile phone message, detailing what the Joker was going to do to each of his pupils once had had hold of them. It had been left on his home machine on Monday morning, right before he'd come in from patrol. According to video from Arkham—the Joker had been asleep at that time.  
  
Not thinking he could listen to it again—he removed his hand from it. He had memorized the contents of the cassette already anyways. Every word, every cackle, every inflection of the madman's voice was imprinted in his head.  
  
"…I just want to reach out and touch the bird-boys. Once you have names… phone numbers're sooo easy to find. Whitepage.com. It's a beautiful, beautiful thing…" The assured promises of what he'd do to them once he had them…  
  
He'd arranged for Jack to go out of town the minute he'd gotten that message.  
  
Instead his hand drifted to the yellow envelope beside the tape. He'd only read this one once, because it had been so difficult to read in Tim and Dick's presence. Both of his gloved hands gripped on to it tightly as he moved away from the table, and towards the glass case in the center of the cave. For a moment, he stared at the white light from the quartz lamp that lit the contents of the case, as if it could somehow wake him up from this.  
  
With reluctance and an ache of renewed grief, his sight trailed to the contents of the case, the short yellow cape with its hard, pointed collar. A crimson tunic that had been cleaned and repaired with care in one night by a shaking and emotionally distressed hand. He remembered watching Alfred attempting to maintain his composure—all the time not trying to let himself break down.  
  
A renewed sense of mission came over him, and he pulled the thick paper out of the envelope. Dick had said that he'd only read the first paragraph, and he refused to read any more. It was quite unlike Dick, who would pick apart every pencil stroke and every chosen word for a clue. This one time, he'd decided to allow the young man his emotional upheaval—especially after seeing the rest of the contents of the letter.  
  
Bruce read it again.  
  
"There's always a rush when you do it with you bare hands. Now you know how I felt when I killed Jason.  
  
"The blood made such pretty patterns when I whacked him. His little head snapped forward, and it just went shooting out everywhere. Didn't get a drop on me. That's the funny thing, about splatter-patterns. That was the problem with you—you hit me right in the face with your fist. Then you got blood all over those pretty gloves of yours. Messed the blue stripes right up, didn't it? I'll give you some lessons—when I come for you and your little brother. Maybe you can watch me do him. And trust me… I'll have my chance. You can't be on your guard all the time—and Batman can't always protect you. You saw how good of a job he did with that mouthy brat, Jason."  
  
The letter pretty much ended there, and was signed with a kiss. The hand containing both letter and envelope fell to his side. The fingers of his other hand pressed against the glass, in front of the gold and black R upon the red vest. That had been the hardest to repair.  
  
He wasn't going to fail Dick and Tim the way he'd failed Jason. He couldn't let that happen again. There was no way he could live with himself if he had to watch Alfred restitch another uniform.  
  
Breaking the painful, uneasy moment, the grandfather clock at the top of the cave steps creaked as it swung opened. Muffled voices became clearer as two sets of youthful feet came padding down the steps. Bruce stepped into a shadow and observed, his heart turning cold and heavy as lead, and sinking to his stomach with the speed of an anchor in fresh water.  
  
"You're stupid," Tim announced.  
  
"I'm stupid? You're a dork. And your hair looks funny," Dick replied. There was a scuffle on the fifteenth step. The pair lost their balance until the eighteenth, and slid on their backs down to the unfinished cave floor.  
  
"I told you to leave my hair alone! It isn't my fault! I woke up this way!" He was trying to get a handle on Dick's shoulders to push him away, but Dick was too big, and Tim's arms were far too short.  
  
Bruce tried not to make evident his observation as Dick mashed the young man's hair around his head, almost maliciously. "You woke up a dinkwad?" he pushed the boy's cheek to the floor.  
  
Tim gave only a muffled protest. "Shut up. I hate you."  
  
"I hate you more," Dick replied.  
  
Their scuffle stopped, and the two crawled to their feet.  
  
"How ya doing now?" Dick asked quietly, fixing his own hair. Some day he'd give up and admit it was wild and unmanageable and stop trying.  
  
"I'm ok," Tim answered quietly. "Where's Bruce?" He looked around in the dark. Bruce wasn't near the computer, or any of their evidence. Maybe he was in one of the vaults. He was glad; he didn't know how he'd feel about Batman witnessing their display.  
  
"Just don't think about it," Dick ordered, though he was having trouble doing that himself. "Just… concentrate on how bad Babs is going to beat our asses for this." And if that didn't work, he could beat Tim up.  
  
Some part of him was kind of fearful that this situation might part him from his family, so he wrapped an arm around the boy, squeezing as hard as he could, and punched him in the chest firmly. He wasn't sure how or why, but it made HIM feel better. Were they normal people, he supposed that pestering Tim would be the equivalent of a deep talk and a hug for reassurance.  
  
If they were a normal family—they wouldn't be having these problems.  
  
He sighed, but was brought out of his thoughts when a spry fist caught him in the jaw just enough to hurt. "I'm going to hang you upside down and beat you like a piñata," he promised, pushing the boy away.  
  
Something sentimental crossed the younger man's face as they parted ways. "Thanks, Dick," he muttered, some part of him assuaged. "Time ta get to work. And Babs can only beat us if we get caught." He could do his job. He was a professional, and he'd been trained by the best. Even if he were scared, he'd uphold their standards.  
  
"Yes," Batman said, suddenly appearing out of the shadows behind the case bearing Jason Todd's costume. "It's time to get to work."  
  
Continued in part 5  
  
One of the first circus clowns, established by Joseph Grimaldi in the early 1800s, was the "Jocy? Character" a comically self-serving clown who alternated between arrogant gloating and cringing cowardice. --Colombia Encyclopedia, 6th ed. 


	6. Chapter Five

Disclaimers in prologue. Thanks for John for looking this chapter over and finding my typing oopsies. Yer a pal.  
  
Who's Laughing Now?  
  
Chapter Five  
  
**  
  
Classic European Whiteface—  
  
Character: Also commonly called the Pierott clown. An elegant clown, artistic, colorful, bright and cheery. Its performance is highly artistic and skillful, but done with a comedic or dramatic flair.  
  
~*~  
  
Robin stared at the blinking prompt on the command line. It flashed green, waiting for him. And he was waiting for Batman and Nightwing to be in place. He didn't know how Barbara could stand this.  
  
"We're outside the maximum security wing," Batman informed him. The gruff voice echoed through the cave.  
  
Robin switched to headset, so he could hear more clearly, and then began typing commands as accurately and as quickly as his ungloved fingers could manage.  
  
"Ok, the security behind the walls has been set on a loop feed. Nightwing has seven minutes and forty-eight seconds. Starting… now." Two typos and eight commands later and the security camera in the Joker's cell was feeding last week's information. "And Batman's good to go. You have nine minutes and fifteen seconds. Starting now." He'd fed seventeen false commands into Barbara's network, and she hadn't found his port, or his bots. Perhaps he could get through this. "Like you have a choice," he muttered to himself.  
  
"Robin?" Batman asked cautiously.  
  
"Nothing. Talking to myself."  
  
Batman didn't respond. In light of that, Robin gave himself the lecture he was sure he would have gotten—about keeping channels opened, and not filling the air waves with things that're going to alarm people. It's basically the same lecture he'd have given Young Justice if they'd have done that. Keep your head in the game, Drake, he told himself. You officially can't afford to screw up.  
  
* * *  
  
A blue and black clad figure stopped in the security enclave outside the maximum-security wing. Nightwing hit the central circuit box behind the security guard's booth. Unfortunately, he'd had to temporarily neutralize the guy. He felt bad—but just a little.  
  
Picking the manual lock and overriding the electrical key pad, he pulled open the panel and took a look at part of the computer that controlled access to cells in the maximum security block. All of the boards were original to the unit's installation last summer, none of the wires or cabling had been tampered with. Closing the box, he made sure the guard was still unconscious.  
  
Checking his time, he moved on to all of the security measures that had been implemented in the ceiling and walls of the Joker's quarters. The space between the ceiling and the next floor was tight, and he was running out of time. Without hesitation, he lifted himself into the space above the Joker's cell. Just before he passed from sight, he saw Batman crossing the threshold.  
  
* * *  
  
Batman made no move to wake the Joker. He stood in front of the straight- jacketed creature lying on the transparent mattress. He didn't make a sound, he didn't shift or stir the air. He simply existed.  
  
As if on cue, the white figure on the floor rolled over, and looked up at the Bat.  
  
Batman continued to exist. Two feet from the Joker's red and green head.  
  
"Can I help you?" The Joker asked, mimicking Bruce Wayne's tone at the meeting that had precipitated this current situation. The Bat stared at him, completely unresponsive. "So… what did it? The letter, or the phone call to the Brat?" Briefly, the Joker wondered if he was about to get pounded. He was ok with that. He just didn't' think the Bat would break so easily.  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
164.228.87.15 says: Hey, Boy Wonder, turn on your audio.  
  
164.228.32.10 says: Can't. Busy.  
  
164.228.87.15 says: Oooh. Using Bat-resources for surfing porn?  
  
164.228.32.10 says: Shutup, Babs.  
  
  
  
Every time her message appeared in his terminal window, the knots in Tim's stomach twisted another turn. He was now wound tight enough to snap. He was having trouble feeding her machine commands in a timely manner with her one- liners popping up every three seconds. Just incase, he started deleting some of the more obvious files.  
  
rem hwblock12.pmx  
  
164.228.87.15 says: what's you're deal? You're all acting weird.  
  
rem hwblock13.pmx  
  
Tim licked his lips anxiously; he knew he was trying to kid a kidder. He looked at the time, and then made a decision.  
  
"Batman," Tim said into the speaker. He counted to three, didn't hear anything, and said it again. "Batman?" With his tongue, he could feel a dried crack forming on his lower lip. Licking it again would only make it worse, he knew, but he did it anyway, but he didn't know what else to do—he was trying really hard not to become a nervous wreck. "Batman, I have to put Oracle on audio. I can't type while she's talking to me."  
  
Garnering no response from the Dark Knight, Robin opened the connection. "Barbara, we have to make this short," Tim told her anxiously.  
  
* * *  
  
Batman continued to glare at the Joker, who had taken up a new tactic: for the time being, he simply glared back.  
  
Above, Nightwing continued to wade through cabling and security precautions, not getting any answers. He pulled himself along the shallow enclave that housed the tightly locked down air regeneration system, and the perimeter alarms. Readjusting his light, and looking at the time, sighed to himself, wondering… if not the Joker, then who?  
  
The Joker had killed Robin, in a warehouse in a foreign country, and Bruce Wayne's adopted son turns up dead in the explosion? Even before the Joker revealed to Nightwing that he knew the previous Robin's name, they'd been on their guard.  
  
Double-checking the equipment, he could find no signs of tampering. He was running out of time, and he needed to get out. Even with a lack of physical evidence, Nightwing knew it was the Joker. He just didn't know how—or WHY NOW.  
  
* * *  
  
Robin tried to type and talk at the same time, and it wasn't working too well, so he opted just for typing, for a moment. This was a lot more complicated than it was supposed to be.  
  
"Young Justice is right," she said quizzically. "You're turning into a spaz like your mentor. Loosen up a little. And tell me what's going on."  
  
rem hwblock19.pmx  
  
"TIIIIM," Barbara demanded. "Come on. If you don't fess up, I'm going to start digging. And I WILL find something."  
  
Was that a threat or a promise?  
  
rem hwblock32.pmx  
  
"Babs, things're just weird here. You know Bruce. Dick and I never even got out of Gotham tonight. Bruce got all weird and 'bonding' and he hasn't let us out of his sight since like four."  
  
"Ok, whatever. But you better tell Dick to return all the stuff he's stolen off of me."  
  
"Stolen?"  
  
"Uh huh. It's either him or Dinah who's walking off with all my toys. I'd say it's Bruce, but this is official Dick-Weird."  
  
For a few moments, Tim didn't respond. He continued typing, removing the last file that he could safely get rid of. "I'll tell him. Betcha he was saving up for a practical joke or something," the Boy Wonder said with an uneasy laugh. "April Fools is like… ten months off."  
  
He winced, looking at the time. "Hey, I gotta do something. Can I put you on hold for like a minute? And I'll give you the skinny on Bruce's madness." Sorry, Batman, Tim thought to himself. He was sure the Bat wouldn't appreciate Tim pinning all of this on him, but he was an easy target. Anyone within the group would believe Bruce had done just about ANYTHING, if they could someone take a pondering guess at his motivation.  
  
"Sure kid. Just tell Nightwing to gimme my toys back."  
  
Tim found himself licking the cut on his lip again. He had a REALLY bad feeling about a LOT of things right now. "Ok, Batman, I'm back on. Do you need a second feed of the security loop?"  
  
It was still too damned quiet on the other end. He prayed that everything was OK.  
  
* * *  
  
The Joker began shifting slightly in his straight jackets, making an obvious attempt at escape, but still the Batman did not move. "Ok, NOW you're just getting annoying!" The Joker hollered angrily. "I mean, who the hell do you think you are, anyways? DO something!" For fuck's sake. What the hell did he have to do to get a reaction out of the Bat?  
  
He ALMOST had Grim and Creepy back in "Stately Wayne Manor," and it had been the best time he'd had since ol' Wing-nut sent him to the here-after. Now Bats was going all 'anti-emotion' on him? It wasn't FAIR!  
  
"Okie. Fine. I got something that'll ruffle your feathers. Or hairy little wings. Or Whatever." His hands shot out of the bottom of the straight- jacket, holding a stuffed Robin doll. Or at least it used to be stuffed. It was just the outer fabric skin of the doll. "Hehe. I heard this story on the Discovery Channel. See, these ancient South American folks would skin their kids when they died and make little dolls out of 'em. How do you think I'd look, wearing a Robin-skin coat?"  
  
The Joker never knew what hit him. The Batman's fist had connected with his face with lightening speed. When he withdrew from the cell, the Joker's broken face oozed blood onto the straight-jacket and mattress, but what was left of the stuffing-less doll was gone.  
  
* * *  
  
In the Bat Cave, Robin felt a chill run through him. "Barb?" Tim asked, his voice cracking. Catching himself, he deleted what was almost a misspelled command and retyped. He looked over his shoulder at the magenta and pumpkin colored jack-in-the-box on the evidence table. "You wouldn't happen to be missing your Nightwing and Robin dolls, would you?"  
  
"You found 'em?" she asked hopefully.  
  
"Uh huh," he said in a high-pitched voice that was unbecoming of a young man who's voice had already changed.  
  
"And while I'm thinking about it," she responded, stern anger suddenly evident in her tone, "quit hacking my network. It isn't funny. I'm killing all of your bots."  
  
"I don't think it's funny either," Robin chirped in nervous response.  
  
  
  
Continued in part 6  
  
One of the most famous of the European court jesters was Nasir Ed Din. One day the king glimpsed himself and a mirror, and saddened at how old he looked, started crying. The other members of the court decided they better cry as well. When the king stopped crying, everyone else stopped crying as well, except Nasir Ed Din. When the king asked Nasir why he was still crying, he replied, "Sire, you looked at yourself in the mirror but for a moment and you cried. I have to look at you all the time." 


	7. Chapter Six

Who's Laughing Now?  
  
Chapter 6  
  
**  
  
But the fact that some geniuses were laughed at does not imply that all who are laughed at are geniuses. They laughed at Columbus, they laughed at Fulton, they laughed at the Wright brothers. But they also laughed at Bozo the Clown.  
  
-- Carl Sagan  
  
~*~  
  
A disheveled, almost half-crazed Dick Grayson showed up on Barbara's door step early the next afternoon. He hadn't slept at all, since the revelation that the stuffed toys had come from Barbara's apartment—or after he saw what the Joker had done to the Robin doll. Cassandra, the current Batgirl, had been watching the Clocktower since last night.  
  
He rang the buzzer once and then leaned back on his heels. The carpet had just been replaced, and the deep blue spongen material beneath his feet was a bit soothing, even given his current circumstances. He felt like he could ALMOST doze off standing right there.  
  
Glaring at the metal door, he pressed the button labeled "talk", next to the door bell.  
  
"Hey, Babs," Dick called into the intercom, his throat dry and cracking. "How's about letting me in?" Staring up into the camera above the door, he could feel her gaze scrutinizing him.  
  
Finally, the door opened. "So, you decided to come to dinner with me and dad after all?" Barbara looked up at him skeptically. He had a feeling this was going to be difficult.  
  
Dick shrugged, trying to appear innocent. "Yeah, figured we could pick him up from the airport. Listen to stories about his great fishing conquests." He stepped into her apartment, checked the hall one last time, then closed the door and locked it, rearming the security.  
  
How the hell was the Joker getting in and out of these places? BAT people couldn't get in and out without alerting Barbara of their presence. How could someone so… insane be doing it?  
  
"My dad hasn't caught anything in years," Barbara pointed out. "And you look like hell, Grayson. If you're getting sick, stay away from ME."  
  
Taking his hands out of his jean-pockets, Dick held his hands up defensively. "Wooh, there. I'm not getting sick. Just had one of those nights, you know?"  
  
She wheeled through the living room and back into her computer room. She'd spent the whole first half of the day trying to both figure out HOW Tim had gotten into her systems, and WHY. She hated being at odds with the Bat- clan, especially since she was supposed to be on their side, but they made it difficult. She decided to play it cool with Dick, to see what she could get out of him. He HAD to be involved in whatever scheme had suddenly set her against Bruce and Tim. He'd spent all of the last night in their company, and whatever the Bat-folks had against each other, when one of them was involved in something annoying or dangerous, ALL of them were.  
  
"The least you could have done," she said, closing down some of her more obvious windows, "was bring my toys back. I don't know what you think you're doing with them."  
  
Cramming his fists back in his pocket, Dick bit both of his cheeks for a moment as he followed her into the room. Standing behind her chair, he watched her close several incriminating windows. It wasn't good that she was suspicious—but it wasn't unexpected. She was hardly stupid. "Uh… having them dry cleaned." If they made it out of this with their story intact, he'd get her new ones made. The problem was—he had NO idea what that resolution would be.  
  
The Joker enjoyed driving people crazy. He enjoyed killing them, but mostly he liked to torture them physically and emotionally first. He also seemed really hung up on what Dick had done to him. Well, if someone had killed you with his bare hands, you might be a little hung up on it too.  
  
"Just give 'em back, ok?" Finishing up what she was doing, Barbara turned her chair around to face him. "So, what's with the sudden bonding move?" she asked, skeptically.  
  
Oh, she was suspicious, Dick thought. This was going to be an even bigger problem than it already was. "So, if you're inviting me to dinner with you and your dad, that means that I have to reciprocate?" he plastered his girl- killer smile across his face, hoping it'd at least buy him some time. He was only here tonight to make sure she and her dad were OK. Bruce and Tim were continuing to work on the case at hand.  
  
"Dinner with your dad?" Barbara frowned. "Now THAT'S a load of fun."  
  
"I didn't say it was supposed to be fun." He could have really been nettling her about the nature of the 'invitation to meet the parents' thing, and what it implied about a relationship. He could have been outright harassing her for a deeper commitment. But right now, it was all he had in him to play these games.  
  
* * *  
  
The lights of the interior of the airport reflected off of the glass walls of the "B" terminal of Gotham International Airport, denying Dick and Barbara a view of the rain that had been pouring down since they'd left Barbara's apartment a few hours before. They'd been sitting there for quite some time. First the flight had been delayed in Florida from take-off, and now it was having trouble landing because of the storm in Gotham. Was it possible for weather to be doing things to spite them all?  
  
Through the mirror created by the light and the glass, Barbara eyed Dick suspiciously as he continued to look around the airport with equal concern. She knew he was trying to hide his frequent inspections of their surroundings, but she still caught him. She wasn't stupid—she'd played the game long enough to learn Bat-Tricks.  
  
He also seemed under-slept, under-fed, and generally nervous, which made her task of detection all the more simple. He continually rubbed the palms of his hands on the faded knees of his jeans, and looked at her, trying to smile. Occasionally, he'd shift stiffly in the black pleather chair he sat in, arching his eyebrows, as if he could cover for his current state with mere cuteness.  
  
"Dick…" Barbara finally pleaded. This couldn't continue like it had been—she refused to let it. "Is this about Jason? What's really going on?"  
  
He snapped out of his thoughts and regarded her silently for a moment. The dark thoughtfulness in his eyes reminded her more of Bruce's usual state than Dick Grayson, Perpetual Optimistic.  
  
"Why was Tim hacking inside my network last night?" She'd asked the young man directly, but he'd evaded her last night, and she'd already spent the whole day trying to figure out what he was up to, and only had half a clue. "What does this have to do with Arkham?"  
  
Her Twenty-Something Wonder continued to reveal nothing, and she was caught between anger mixed with frustration, and serious concern. She wanted to smack him. But above all—she didn't want him to end up like Bruce—constantly playing his emotional cards incredibly close to his chest  
  
"It's nothing, Babs," he told her mildly. "Just… getting to be that time of the year. And Tim's just probably stretching his hacking wings."  
  
Folding her arms over her chest, she barely bit back fury. "Not on MY machine, he doesn't! Bruce should kick his ass for the security breach alone—unless—Bruce was in on it. Look, I know he has bots aimed at me. I know he's got at least a dozen hacks on my network going. But if I'm part of this team—I think I should know what the hell's going on."  
  
He looked away from her for a moment, then got his cell phone out of his pocket, then got up and began walking away.  
  
Her eyes bored hatefully into his plaid cotton sweater. "Don't walk away from me, Richard." She could have followed. She had a good mind to chase after him, in her damned wheel chair, and tell him exactly what she thought of the situation. But if he were 'pulling a Bruce,' what would the point be?  
  
  
  
"Yeah, Tim… put Bruce on," Dick said quietly. He walked towards the newsstand, which was closed at this advanced hour. Leaning against the metal frame of the newsstand counter, he forced himself to not look back at Barbara. He hated this. He hated doing this to her—but Dick being a jerk was a hell of a lot less painful and nerve wracking than knowing she in serious danger from a force they had yet to isolate and as of yet had no means to stop.  
  
As much as he despised her anger, he didn't know if he could handle what would happen to her emotionally even more. The Joker had taken so much from her, had completely altered the fabric of her life, and had perhaps killed Dick's window of opportunity to ever give her happiness.  
  
"How the hell is he doing it?" Dick asked nervously when Bruce came on the line.  
  
It was awfully damned quiet on the other end. "Just stick with her. Don't alarm either of them unnecessarily," Bruce instructed.  
  
Like a junkie in need of a fix, Dick fidgeted, his eyes darting back and forth in exhaustion coupled with uncertainty. "Ok, this is out of hand."  
  
"I know," Bruce answered tightly.  
  
Dick tried to swallow his frustration. He knew Bruce was at a breaking point as well. "Sorry," he apologized breathily. The only consolation that Dick had at this point was that even though the Joker had somehow gotten into Oracle's overly secure lair, all of the madman's attacks seemed directed at Batman and his protégé's, and not Oracle. "Look… just… figure something out," he demanded pointlessly.  
  
Ending the call, he stared at the black phone in his hand for a moment. He couldn't take it if Barbara knew what was going on. He couldn't stand the look of betrayal in her eyes if she knew they'd kept this from her so long already. He couldn't bear the hurt that would cover over her features as she relieved all the old pains, or the look of haunted fear that would overcome her as she imagined new atrocities.  
  
He had to tell her.  
  
With his head hanging low, he marched back to where Barbara was sitting. Her arms were folded over her chest, he could tell that from fifty yards. Making the long trek back across the abused tan carpeting of the terminal, he tried to formulate something resembling an explanation.  
  
Dick sat down, trying to appear contrite. As he did so, he noticed two airline employees becoming busy, even though they were still the only people waiting at the gate.  
  
He gave a contrite sigh before he began. "Babs… you're right. I owe you an explanation. For the hacking… for everything." This was the thing that separated him from Bruce, right? He hadn't completely allowed himself to be isolated and warped the way Bruce was.  
  
Right. He'd just keep telling himself that as Bruce kicked his ass for this.  
  
She scowled at him, turning the chair and moving towards the counter at the gate.  
  
"Wait, aren't you going to listen?" he asked pleadingly. He was ready to tell her, and she was moving away from him?  
  
"Either make it quick, or wait until we drop my dad off at home, because they said his plane arrived at the gate, No-Wonder. But you weren't listening because you were having a pow-wow down the corridor." She parked herself near the big metal door at the gate, her back to him. Locking her wheels, her arms folded over her chest again, her opinion of his actions clearly visible.  
  
* * *  
  
Listlessly, Tim swung in the oversize chair back and forth as he talked to Black Canary. He didn't know what he could do to release his nervous energy, but twiddling his thumbs didn't have nearly the same hypnotic effect as the creaking Batman's chair made every time he stopped his momentum and changed direction.  
  
"Thanks," he said, getting ready to finish up his conversation. "I appreciate you clearing that up." He didn't want to imply anything beyond gratitude and annoyed complacency, but Dinah's revelation about the toys had done more to trouble his soul than ease his mind.  
  
"Hey, no problem. I'm happy to be involved with anything that gets him in deep trouble—he's been mean to Oracle lately," said a sultry yet flippant voice. " Just tell Nightwing he better stop being a boob and give her the dolls back. I mailed them to him because I thought it would be a good joke, but she's uber-livid."  
  
Tim licked the sore on his lip, wondering why he didn't have a compartment in his belt for lip balm. "Do you remember the source of the e-mail you got from Nightwing? Or the box he had you mail 'em to?"  
  
"I can forward you the e-mail."  
  
Tim thanked her and closed the connection, not even bothering to ask her to send the full headers of the e-mail. It would be pointless. Dinah more of an 'in your face' type field agent. She didn't handle technology very well at all—hence her thinking that an e-mail in Dick's tone of voice was actually from Dick.  
  
He swallowed a few times before turning the chair and rising to join Bruce at the metal table that had filled up with evidence since this had begun. He was reviewing physical copies of blue prints and security schematics. This had been going on for several hours, and Batman hadn't said a word the entire time, except when Dick had called.  
  
"This is looking REALLY bad," Tim pointed out. "I mean… Babs isn't safe. He knows who she's in contact with—even if he didn't somehow magically break into her apartment to get the dolls." Batman's black-gloved hand pulled a deep blue and white sheet off of a more modern blue on white sheet, looking back between the two sets of plans. Robin wasn't wholly sure he should be interrupting, but it seemed like Batman had been going on too long like this with no results.  
  
"Then they are in danger right now," Batman announced, finally releasing the plans and stepping back from the table. "The Joker has free access in and out of Arkham. He's had it since No Man's Land, at least. Dick didn't find any tampering with the security system because there wasn't any. The 'out' was built into the system put into place after the quake."  
  
Tim's jaw dropped. "So he found another rout out on his last escape… just because?"  
  
"This is a game to the Joker," Batman pointed out painfully as he dialed Dick's cell phone number. He had some theories on how the Joker had appeared to be sleeping or in therapy when these events had occurred. All of it led up to one immediate problem: Dick, Barbara and Jim were out in the open.  
  
Without waiting for Batman to tell him to, Tim began migrating towards the car. As he did so, he made sure they were prepared, tasers, sedatives and anti-Joker-venom. A new problem twisted in his gut: if the Joker had been able to come and go freely for such a length of time—what had he had time to plan for them?  
  
Continued in Chapter 7  
  
But we are all men  
  
In our own natures frail.  
  
---Henry VIII, Act V Scene iii 


	8. Chapter Seven

Disclaimers and thank you's in prologue. Special thanks to John, for just exhisting.  
  
  
  
Who's Laughing Now?  
  
Chapter 7  
  
**  
  
"The American Circus Clown provided comic relief between acts and filled in when staging was being changed. His most important function was to relieve tension between the serious and often times, dangerous acts of Lion Tamers, equestrians and trapeze artists." –The Circus and the Clown  
  
  
  
~*~  
  
Barbara wiped salt off the orange table she and her company were sitting at. "I can feel my arteries clogging, and I haven't even eaten anything yet," she commented. The place reeked of grease, and if cholesterol didn't kill her, she was certain food poisoning or filth from the dirty table would.  
  
She looked around at the small store, it was just them and the cook, and a hundred gallons of oil at this hour. She wanted to just wait and have breakfast tomorrow or something, but her father insisted on 'purging' airplane food from his system.  
  
"Do you know how long it's been since I've had a steak sandwich," James Gordon pointed out. "And everything else is closed. If I want grease, I'm going to have some grease."  
  
Dick Grayson nodded his ascent. Grease made life possible. He'd lost his opportunity to tell Babs what his new-found problem was, but he did feel somewhat better, having come to the decision to tell her. Now all he could do was try to wait this evening out.  
  
Barbara shook her head at Dick in disgust. "Ugg. I'm going to the bathroom."  
  
Dick followed her with his eyes until she disappeared into the ladies' room.  
  
"And you, young man," Jim said with humor, once they were alone. "When are you going to move to a more sensible city?"  
  
Dick had to admit, retirement was agreeing with Jim Gordon. The man had been so stressed out in recent years, so under pressure from his job and the political engine, he hadn't smiled in a long time. "Metropolis PD isn't accepting transfers," he said wistfully, knowing that wasn't the answer Gordon was looking for.  
  
"It wouldn't KILL you to look into transferring here," Jim pointed out. "Especially if you and Barbara are seeing each other again." He looked pleasantly bemused with the current situation, as though if this were the worst of his problems, he was suddenly doing very, VERY well.  
  
"Who said we're… Ok, we are." Why bother trying to deny it? The point of this encounter was to establish the level of their going-outness. He felt his phone begin buzzing in his pocket. He began reaching in for it as he continued answering Jim. "I dunno. It's something to look into. Bludhaven's OK though. They've got this REALLY slimy cheese--"  
  
There was half a scream, then a thud. Dick leapt to his feet as the woman's room door swung opened and the Joker gave a hideous laugh. He had a hand- full of Barbara's hair, and was dragging her behind him.  
  
"I have this!" Jim hollered, trying to push past Dick, but he wouldn't allow it. He firmly placed himself in front of the former officer and made his stand. "No!" Jim harshly called to Dick, stopping in mid motion in his reach for his gun.  
  
Jim must have thought that the Joker was here for him, Dick thought absently as he approached. Out of the corner of his eye, Dick saw a puddle of blood spreading past the food counter. The short order cook couldn't have been dead long. "All right, asshole," Dick yelled. If Barbara was dead, the Joker would be finding new meanings to the word 'pain.' He spread his arms. "Let go of her."  
  
"Hehe. Electrified the restroom stalls. The girl lit up like a Christmas tree. I figured I'd go for round two on her," the madman said maliciously. He lifted his prize by the hair, holding a gun beneath her jaw. Dick saw that she was unconscious only, but couldn't tell any more.  
  
Gordon tried to approach, but stopped his forward progress when he got a sharp, commanding glare from Dick Grayson. This was turning into a disaster, he realized. It was happening again. His life crumbling before his eyes.  
  
"If you kill her," Dick said darkly. "They're never going to FIND all the pieces of you. You don't want her anyways, do you? You want me. Cause you know that you already got your jabs in with Him by hurting her. Now you want your shot at me." It was a viable theory. One he at least hoped it would work. And if not, perhaps the suggestion could be planted in the Joker's mind.  
  
"Oooh. Got some rage-management issues going, don't we? But then, I already knew that." He pulled back the hammer on the gun. Now it would only take the slightest touch to blow Barbara's head off.  
  
Jim saw that the Joker's full attention was focused on Grayson. He slowly began to edge around one of the hideous orange tables, hoping to make some forward movement possibly by distancing himself from the young man. If he could get far enough over, and pull his weapon out without drawing attention…  
  
"Come on, you sick fucking clown. Let her go," Dick urged, his voice almost grinding like the Bat's. "You and me, we can go outside and settle this like men."  
  
The Joker thought about it, or at least pretended to. His focus shifted from the gun at Barbara's neck, and Dick knew he was beginning to stand a chance.  
  
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Dick said indulgently. "You. Me. No gadgets. No Batman."  
  
That made the Joker grin, his lips pulling back into some perversion of pleasure. "That COULD be nice." Suddenly, he bit his upper lip, then dropped Barbara on the floor. Her body hit with a sick thud on the glazed terracotta. "But you'd like that too much. No Batman to save you from yourself."  
  
Dick dove to his left, even as he sensed the gun being raised. He felt the table beside him knocking to the floor. His head exploded and his ears rang with the sound of the shot. As gravity began taking him downward, he felt his body tear with the shot that had been intended for James Gordon.  
  
Adding further insult to injury, his ribs smashed into the edge of the knocked-over table, sending pain shooting through his chest. When he FINALLY landed on the ground, he looked up. The Joker was gone.  
  
Continued in part eight  
  
Medieval moralists and theologians thought of the fool as an object of scorn. "He transgresses or ignores the code of reasoned self-restraint under which society attempts to exist, is unmeasured in the hilarity or in his melancholy, disregards the logic of cause and effect and conducts himself in ways which seem rash and shocking to normal mortals."  
  
-- The Fool Throughout the Ages 


	9. Chapter Eight

Disclaimers in prologue.  
  
Who's Laughing Now?  
  
Chapter Eight  
  
**  
  
"In the 1400's it was thought that fools should be avoided because foolishness was contagious. In Sebastian Brant's book Ship of Fools, first published in 1494, foolishness equaled sin in the eyes of God." –The Fool Throughout the Ages  
  
~*~  
  
Jim moved as quickly as possible to the nearest body, climbing over an overturned table, and kicking a chair out of the way. Dick was already trying to roll to his knees, despite the bleeding and broken arm. His other hand was wrapped around his chest, clutching his ribs. His knees actually slid in the puddle of his own blood forming beneath him, and he lost his balance. "I'm fine," the young man winced, looking toward Barbara. He grabbed hold of the up-ended table and attempted pulling himself to his feet.  
  
Loosing some modicum of sympathy, he stepped over his daughter's date and moved the twenty feet to where she lay, facedown on the tile floor. He passed the counter and the young, headless short order cook lying in a pool of blood upon the floor, and then knelt beside his daughter. Next to her had been left the remnants of a child's plush toy, severed at the waist, its face exploded in a fluff of burnt stuffing.  
  
It was sick, and even as he turned his daughter over, he couldn't take his eyes off the doll's red hair, cloth bat-symbol, or yellow cape.  
  
She was breathing but unconscious. He saw the burn marks upon her right hand, the bruises on her arm and neck, and it turned his blood to ice in his veins. Hadn't she endured enough? Hadn't he?  
  
Checking her pulse and pulling back her eyelids to investigate her pupils, he tried to brush off the chill that had overcome him. It WAS happening again—only this time he'd been lucky. She was still here, and relatively whole. That mad man was connected to every tragedy in his life.  
  
Gently shoving his jacket beneath her head, he crossed back to the front counter. Stepping behind it, he did his best to avoid the puddle of blood that was now seeping into and running down the long spaces between the tiles.  
  
He reached for the phone between the grill and the fryer.  
  
"Don't," came a raw voice from behind him. "Not the cops."  
  
Jim scowled, protest etched on every line of his face."Grayson, you idiot, we ARE the cops." He picked up the receiver.  
  
"NO. I have people who can take care of this." The boy struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on the only chair in the area that had not been knocked over. All of his weight seemed to be pressing on its heavy magnesium frame. "People who'll look at her. And me. It's going to be OK." Dick sounded much more confidant than he felt.  
  
"You have PEOPLE?" Jim hollered. "There is a dead boy back here, and my daughter was almost electrocuted and shot, and you want to call someone OTHER than the authorities?"  
  
Dick took two steps forward, and then collapsed onto the chair. "You can't. The Joker…" he swallowed, his mouth suddenly so very dry.  
  
"Tried to kill us all! I don't know WHAT game you're playing, Grayson, but don't play it anywhere NEAR my daughter." In a furious rage, his finger began slamming numbers on the key pad. There was a slight whistling in the air, and a bat-shaped razor sliced through the phone cord and embedded itself into the metal splashguard on the wall. He looked up to see a dark, point-eared figure in the doorway who didn't look at ALL amused.  
  
"I have it, Jim," Batman informed his ally. Looking behind him, he gestured for Robin to take a look at Dick, and he went to Barbara. As stealthily as he could, he began to pick her up. Despite his efforts, the redhead began to stir in his arms.  
  
Jim let the receiver fall to the ground. "Where are you taking her?"  
  
"This location is NOT secure," Batman informed him, only cool logic in his voice. "They can not remain here." He looked to his protégé, who was making something of a splint with his collapsed bow staff and excessive amounts of medical tape for Dick's broken and bleeding arm. "Take him in her van," he ordered Robin. "I'll take her in The Car. Call Leslie. Have her meet us there." As he spoke, he also lifted the demolished doll from the greasy floor.  
  
Eyelids began to raise and two green eyes looked first at the toy, then to him. Without thinking, the fist of Barbara's burnt hand pulled back and connected with his jaw. Like a masochist, Batman neither avoided nor retaliated. "Remind me to kill you all later," Barbara ground out, before passing into oblivion again.  
  
Jim once again moved past the ever-spreading puddle of blood, actively avoiding looking at the boy's body. "Where are you taking her?"  
  
"Ride with Robin and find out."  
  
* * *  
  
Robin quickly checked the rear view mirror, stealing a glance at the passenger in the back. Quickly he checked his side mirrors, making another quick look at Dick. He licked his cold sore as he tried to keep up with the Batmobile. Assuming the Joker didn't get to them first, Barbara was going to kill them.  
  
He pulled a cell phone out of his belt. This was a LOT harder without someone in the clock tower or cave to patch him through to whatever number he wanted on his com link. Pressing number one on his speed dial, he thrust the phone at Dick. "Here. You talk to her." The young man didn't think he'd be able to deal with trying to talk around the issue.  
  
Jim watched the scene transpiring, not knowing what else to do. Life had been nice. He'd finally begun to recover from the tragedies of the past, his daughter's shooting, No Man's Land, and the loss of his wife. He'd been at peace with the world. And the second he'd let down his guard…  
  
"Hi," Dick began, leaning his head against the glass window as he spoke. "It's Dick. Can you meet us at the clinic? Me an' Babs kinda need looked at." He closed his tired eyes as he listened to her scolding. "Yeah. I know. Can't get into details. Ran into… lots of badness. The Bat's car should get there with Barbara first. Not sure about her injuries. I'm being held together with medical tape." His head pressed against the glass more firmly, and Robin removed the phone from his grasp.  
  
"He was awake 'till just now," Robin assured the doctor. "I think it looks worse than it is. No, you're right. I'll leave the medical opinion to you. We're about five minutes out."  
  
A van with its high beams blaring turned on the road right behind Robin. Jim dared to look behind him, trying to make out some details of the vehicle. "Lots of badness…" Jim whispered under his breath. That didn't BEGIN to describe whatever the hell was going on here.  
  
As the gunfire started, Robin swerved. The van was jolted when it hit the side of the road, but he kept control.  
  
"God… what the hell…" Dick muttered as he was jostled awake. A bullet hit the mirror on his side, and it sparked yellow then flew off.  
  
"A little HELP here," Robin announced.  
  
Dick looked around himself, gaining his bearings. With his good hand, he pulled the horizontal switch for the heating upward until it clicked. Behind them, Jim saw a screen of dark liquid and smoke develop. His daughter certainly had an… unusually equipped van.  
  
"THANKS," the Boy Wonder breathed, adding more speed as they sped along the deserted stretch of highway. "Shit. I lost Batman." He knew where he was going—but he'd have felt better getting there as an entourage, as opposed to arriving alone. Robin looked in the mirror, glancing at both of the vehicle's occupants. "So… uh… anyone do anything fun this weekend?"  
  
* * *  
  
As his daughter's van wound its way through the city streets, Jim briefly wondered what he'd gotten himself into. Maybe he should have stayed in Florida. Maybe he should have shot Grayson when he had the chance.  
  
He'd given several large and lengthy protests about leaving the scene of a crime, and notifying the people at Arkham that the Joker was loose,  
  
There was a certain wave of relief when they turned down Crime Alley, and Robin caught the faintest glint of black ahead of him. The Batmobile rolled the remaining distance and turned toward the side entrance of Dr. Leslie Thomkins' clinic.  
  
Only a few blocks away himself, Robin killed his headlights and took one more glance at Dick. "Hey, wake up," he said quietly. "We're here."  
  
In the ill-lit alley, Robin could see Batman getting out of the car, and coming around to the passenger side. His hand on the car door, he paused, staring at the side entrance to the clinic.  
  
There seemed to be a pause and stillness in the air, paper garbage ceased its upward spiral. Not even the ally cats were about on their night hunt for food. About a block off, Robin sensed the change in the air, and slammed on the break, lurching Dick's pale body out of the last remnants of sleep.  
  
Fifty yards in front of them, the side blew off the Thompkins Clinic, Engulfing Batman's car in a hailstorm of mortar and a river of hot orange fire. The sight twisted and grew hazy in an atmosphere filled with accelerant.  
  
"NOT COOL," Robin ground out as he opened the car door. Waiting for the fire to pull back, dying somewhat from the force of the initial explosion, he headed toward the Batmobile, even as Batman pulled his cape from around him and rose from the protective sheltering of the armored car.  
  
A silver, nondescript car pulled up in front of the Batmobile. A short, wiry woman of advanced age got out. She seemed more angry that surprised. "YOU'RE going to pay for that, you know," she scolded loudly, before the three dropped into conversation. Fire continued to crackle beyond the doorway of the clinic and sirens could be heard approaching in the distance.  
  
A second later, Robin returned to the car with the older woman and her medical bag. "New plan," he informed the vehicle's occupants. "We're taking him home," he said, thumbing a gloved finger at Dick.  
  
Jim briefly wondered if the universe had something against him, personally.  
  
Continued in part nine  
  
  
  
"Most fools were considered "naturals". They were dwarves or the mentally challenged. They entertained by their inappropriate actions in upper society. The "artificial" fools were the ones who took the fools guise as a way to speak freely without retribution." –The Jester Pages 


	10. Chapter Nine

Who's Laughing Now?  
  
Chapter 9  
  
**  
  
Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? –Shakespeare  
  
~*~  
  
Jim had two immediate impressions: first, this house was too damned big. Batman had disappeared somewhere into it, leaving Robin to keep immediate watch, claiming he was going to 'secure their location.'  
  
His second impression was that the butler, Alfred, was not happy. He had met them upon immediately entering the house, aiding the doctor and eyeing the two masked members of the party discontentedly.  
  
Jim now sat outside of what he believed to be Dick Grayson's old bedroom. He'd been moved there after his first inspection by the sarcastic, frowning doctor, along with Barbara. He could hear her in there now, muttering unhappily. He was sure she was not pleased at all about being without her chair… she was stuck in there with him when she'd probably much rather run away. She'd always been rather adept at storming off, and being unable to leave under one's own power sort of stole some thunder.  
  
The doctor appeared in the doorway, not looking in the least happy. She handed a pacing Robin his collapsed bow staff. "She'll live. He may not, if she or I get our hands on him." The woman took a few steps towards Jim and held out her hand. "I'm Leslie Thompkins."  
  
Not knowing what else to do, Jim accepted the simple, NORMAL gesture. "Jim Gordon. Barbara's father."  
  
She gave him half a smile, something that was slightly consoling. "Sorry we're not meeting under better circumstances." She looked to Robin, a scowl suddenly twisting on her face.  
  
"I just work here," the boy said defensively as his cell phone rang. He cringed and pulled it out of his pocket. "Hi." The call itself seemed to be more than he could bear; the boy leaned against the wall and slid down, crouching on the floor, as though he could vanish away into it. "No. Reports of my escape are greatly exaggerated. I'm with Alfie. No, he didn't sign me out. I can't believe they called you in Switzerland. I think he just forgot. Dad… FINE. You can talk to him." Exhausted, Robin pulled the phone away from his ear. "Alfred, my dad wants to talk to you!" Waiting, he put the phone back up to his ear. "He's coming. He doesn't just sit around; waiting for you to call and make sure I'm still locked up like the little convict that I am."  
  
The butler appeared over the boy, his hand held out and waiting for the phone. Gratefully, Robin handed it over. "No, sir… it was an error on my part," Alfred explained patiently. "I will correct the problem as soon as we return to campus. Thank you, sir. Not a problem at all." Alfred ended the call and handed the phone back to the boy. He stared down at Robin in reprimand, and the boy squirmed.  
  
Jim tried not to watch the display, but it was nearly impossible. All the boy had to do was leave the hallway with the cell phone. Apparently no one cared any more. Fine. If they didn't, then he didn't. "Go find your mentor," he informed the red and yellow-clad sidekick. "I have a few choice words I'd like to share with him."  
  
"No need," Batman announced, appearing at the end of the hall. He didn't dare to step out of the shadows. "The area is secure. Batgirl will be arriving shortly to provide further security."  
  
"Oh that's just great!" Barbara hollered from the bedroom. "You tell HER, but you don't tell ME anything."  
  
Batman seemed to stiffen, but didn't bother to respond.  
  
"We need to talk," Jim Gordon informed the Dark Knight, his voice laced with pain and authority. Leslie Thompkins made herself scarce, entering the bedroom again and closing the door behind her.  
  
Alfred didn't even bother to excuse himself. He simply went down stairs, probably to 'busy' himself elsewhere. He'd made it known on fifteen occasions that he should have been informed of what was transpiring within the 'family,' and they were all sure he'd find other opportunities before the night was over.  
  
That left Robin, sitting on the floor, licking his cracked lip. He looked at the two men staring down at him, and finally dragged himself to his feet. "Hey, I'm going," Robin muttered, dragging his tired body to a standing position. "Just excuse me while I go find a ledge to jump off of," the boy muttered, following Alfred down the steps.  
  
* * *  
  
Batgirl had stopped two armed robberies and had helped a woman out of her burning car, after it had smashed into an art installation in Robinson Park. That was just in the last hour. She was having a good night, she was content. Now she was going to provide support at a place just outside of the city. She was working extra hard the last few weeks, but the more she worked, the happier she was.  
  
She'd been watching Oracle's apartment, the last day or so, and was glad to get out in the night and fly after sun set. Half way between her originating point, and her destination, she caught sight of a bat, lighting in the sky. She knew what that signal meant.  
  
Changing direction, she went back to Tricorner, and the police headquarters. Usually, she didn't go there—that was Batman's job. She could… just stop and see. It'd only take a minute. If it WAS a big emergency, Batman would want her to take care of that first. She understood him like that. Work first. Other stuff later.  
  
Since her language skills were limited, she wasn't allowed to sneak up on the police, since they usually didn't take kindly to the way she announced herself. She made a visible approach from Ninth Street, squinting at the odd figure upon the roof.  
  
Batgirl knew something wasn't right, Atkins usually stood near the signal, because he would shut it off when Batman appeared. Tonight, he was standing in his long, brown trench coat, looking very frightened. His body was held rigid, and there was something she couldn't identify under his coat. She couldn't see another figure on the roof, but she was sure it was there. She was also sure there was a gun in Atkins' back. His posture screamed of it.  
  
"There's my Little Wildcard!" a voice called out suddenly, echoing off the buildings and stinging in her ears, two blocks away. "I figured Batty would be otherwise detained!" She knew it was coming, and urged herself on faster, trying to cover the remaining block and a half, diving downward and shooting off a new line, even before Atkins' feet were off the ledge. "Well, now so are YOU!"  
  
The laughing started even as her body connected with Atkins', her arms wrapping around him, and the bulk beneath his coat. The laughing continued as the line pulled taught and their direction changed, the air rushing out of the dark-skinned cop's lungs like air being forced out of a bellows.  
  
One bullet whizzed by them, then the full assault of semi-automatic fire began. He was aiming for Atkins, and Batgirl had no choice but to put herself in the way. She changed directions one more time, avoiding most of the barrage of fire, and lowered them beneath cement ledge for shelter as the laughing and shooting continued.  
  
Atkins was a solid, stalwart individual, but even he had trouble getting his footing on the railing beneath him. "Can we make this quick?" he asked hopefully, keeping one hand on her shoulder to keep from falling. That was when he noticed the holes in the cape… the blood.  
  
The girl seemed to not be paying attention. She was listening for something. Finally, there was a pause in the firing. "Outta bullets," she announced breathily, putting an arm beneath him and lowering them both the final few stories to the ground.  
  
She had seen the files on the Joker. Oracle had told her things. She knew the other policemen would get up to the roof, search for the Joker, and probably not find him. Other times, there would be a helicopter to retrieve him, or a bunch of explosions. But he was being sneaky this time.  
  
Catching her breath, she closed her eyes and counted. There were two holes above her left shoulder blade, another low, on the right side of her back. The cape was her primary protection in the rear, and it had twisted around her and had left her open. She wasn't sure how the bullet in her leg had gotten there. If she'd have had better speed and control in the air, it wouldn't have happened. She'd have had better speed and control, if she weren't trying to manage another body—one twice her size. Next time she'd do better.  
  
She tore open his trench coat and looked at the small, flat package taped to his torso. "He said I was supposed to give this--"  
  
Without preamble, she tore it off of his shirt, ripping the silver duct tape from the yellow packaging. Not bothering to open it in his presence, she vanished.  
  
Continued in chapter ten  
  
  
  
Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. -- Shakespeare 


	11. Chapter Ten

Who's Laughing Now?  
  
Part Ten  
  
**  
  
The king himself being attired with dignity, it took the world some centuries to discover that his own conduct and decrees were sufficiently ridiculous for the amusement not only of his court but of all mankind. –The Devil's Dictionary  
  
~*~  
  
They watched Robin disappear into the house, the tired young man's cape wagging behind him as he fumbled down the steps. Finally, Jim turned toward his long-time acquaintance. "I had really hoped that my daughter was done with you people. Professionally, that is." Jim tore the glasses from his face and pinched the red part of his nose where the pads pressed.  
  
Batman didn't move. He didn't breathe or blink, he just stood there. Inside, though, he could feel his chest constricting. This was not how he wanted to have this talk. Not under these circumstances, when he had no firm grasp on the situation to control it. All he knew was that the Joker's timetables were traditionally very small, and whatever final blow he was looking to deal, it would come soon.  
  
"You're supposed to respond," Jim said snidely.  
  
There was a void of silence that hung like a barrier between the two weathered warriors. "What would you have me say?" Batman asked finally.  
  
"Tell me why we walked away from a crime scene. Tell me why no motion has been made to inform authorities of the Joker's escape."  
  
"It wouldn't do any good, Jim. By all appearances, he IS in Arkham, and has been the entire time. The authorities were alerted to the… happenings… after we'd vacated the area. We left for security reasons, and because there were people in need of medical attention." His explanations were quick and efficient, the same as his fighting blows.  
  
Gordon's eyes narrowed. His hand, still holding his glasses, dropped to his side. "Why is my daughter involved in this?"  
  
"It is my deepest regret--"  
  
"Damnit, what is going on?" It was as much a question as an exclamation of anger and frustration.  
  
"He knows," Batman responded quietly. And he left it at that.  
  
"He knows--" It took Jim a few seconds to grasp the magnitude of the situation. "And he's using it against you. And you… because of your damned secrets ask NO ONE for help—inform NO ONE of your situation… until the situation is desperate. That's just great."  
  
"We were trying to handle it internally--"  
  
"He electrocuted her! He was ready to blow her head off! THAT is how you handle it internally. Is it POSSIBLE for anything worse to happen to her? You KNOW what happened the first time. If ANYTHING happens to her… you're going to WISH he had killed you," Jim answered darkly. He glared at the Dark Knight, pain swelling within him. "She's all I have left," he said desperately. "He's taken away everything else."  
  
"I'll stop him," Batman promised. He had no choice. Fighting for the survival of his clan… his family… was paramount.  
  
"WE will stop him," Jim amended.  
  
Batman's eyes bored into him. "This is not your fight."  
  
"You have another thing coming, if you think it's not." He put his glasses back on, pushing the thick lenses up onto his face. "You can't involve people only when it's convenient for you." It was something he had been meaning to tell his associate for years upon years.  
  
"I'm not—Jim. That isn't the nature of this beast. This situation…"  
  
"Has gotten out of control. When is anything ever IN control with the Joker?"  
  
"I need to start taking control," Batman affirmed. Beneath his cape, his arms folded across his chest.  
  
"Fine," Jim said. "Do the same thing you always do—whatever the hell suits you." His eyes narrowed in an attempt to convey his seriousness. "But trust me—its going to start going both ways."  
  
Batman stiffened, standing even straighter, if it was possible. "Put her through," he said, suddenly talking to the air. "Go ahead." He turned from Gordon, giving no indication that their conversation had taken place. "I told you straight—fine. No, you couldn't. Understood. I see. I'll read it when you bring it here." There was another long pause. "How many times were you hit?" He began moving towards the door Leslie had slammed behind her when she'd exited the hall. "I know you've been shot. How do I know? It doesn't matter how I know. How many times have you been hit?" He threw opened the door, gesturing for Leslie to meet him. "Good. Don't move." He raised his head, and Gordon knew the conversation had ended. He looked at Leslie, who knowingly had already grabbed her bag. "Batgirl's been hit four times that she can count. She doesn't appear to be in immediate danger, but she will require assistance."  
  
And that was all he'd say of the matter. He seemed to be in conversation with an invisible third party again, a few seconds later, as they were making haste to the steps. "Send Robin back up here… wake him up. We need…"  
  
In an unnecessary gesture, Jim pushed the glasses back up on his face, then went in to see his daughter. Grayson was unconscious in the bed in the center of the room. No one seemed alarmed that the sheets were bloody and ruined. No one observed how out of place it was in this pristine room.  
  
"Did he just leave?" Barbara asked angrily from the day bed in the corner of the room. Jim's lack of response was answer enough. "And he left me here!" Her pale skin flushed red with anger. He could tell it was directed more at her inability to do anything than at Dick, or anyone else. Barbara liked to keep busy. He didn't know all the details of how she kept busy, but she'd always been an 'involved' child. She continued on her tirade. "And that one… you just wait till he wakes up. He's going to have another broken arm…"  
  
"Barbara, I know you're frustrated."  
  
"Frustrated doesn't BEGIN to describe. Get Alfred. I want out of here. NOW." Doctor Tompkins was correct—Barbara was going to be all right.  
  
"I'll see what I can do," he reassured her. He felt like that's all he'd been able to do for her in a very long time—a mediocre job, even though it was his best.  
  
* * *  
  
Beneath the corner of Seventy-fifth and Moenech ran a subway line that connected the north-south tracks to the east-west. Below this lay tons shale and slate, echoing with the rumblings of metal boxes barreling down the tracks at break-neck speeds. Burrowed deep within the slate was a large circular room, built into the stone.  
  
"I can't believe she lives here," Leslie complained to Batman, trying to manage the final small passage to the abode. "I can't believe you LET her live here. She's just a child."  
  
Batman didn't respond. She was one of his best soldiers. She could be relied upon for any task he gave her. He was comfortable with her presence on his team—she asked for nothing, though he gave his protection, his symbol—and more recently had given her this home. She was unique of all of all the people he claimed as his own—she was entirely dedicated to his cause, and did not require the things his other charges did. There'd been no muscle car, no adoption papers. She was his perfect warrior—never requiring him to sacrifice himself emotionally.  
  
"You should be ashamed of yourself," Leslie announced when they found the girl lying on her stomach, face down on a practice mat, her cowl and tattered cape laying somewhat beneath her. In her grasp lay a small box, no bigger than a stack of index cards.  
  
Batman removed the box from his soldier's hand, but paused in opening it when Leslie began cutting away her thick black garb and inspecting her wounds. Balking, he looked away and removed the lid from the box.  
  
The small paper box contained cut-up photographs—the two from his desk, as a matter of fact. The picture from his parents' wedding, and a photo of Jason on the day the adoption went through. They were hacked into miniscule pieces, like confetti. The only way he could readily identify the contents of the box was that each body part had been meticulously cut out. The heads of his parents and adopted son stared up at him, seeming to search for answers.  
  
There was a paper taped to the inside of the lid. He was almost afraid to unfold it, but knew he had to. As his fingers wrapped around the paper and straightened it out, he looked back to Leslie and Batgirl.  
  
"This is YOUR fault," Leslie informed him as she continued to dislodge cloth from the sticky and crusted brown wounds. "The girl fights for you, and you let her live in this hovel. Under ground."  
  
"She does this for her own reasons." The Dark Knight didn't kid himself, he knew what they were.  
  
"This girl got herself shot for you, Bruce." Probing the wound closest to the girl's lungs, she searched for the bullet. How many times had she done this for Bruce or Dick? "Like it or not, there're a lot of people attached to your holy crusade, AND your worthless hide. I'd suggest you start treating us all like your family, instead of your troops."  
  
"Look where even distance has gotten you all," Batman pointed out methodically. Even revealing that much had been difficult for him. He turned away and looked at the paper impatiently.  
  
Didn't like finding that very much, didja? That was the part that I missed out on the first time, the part where I senselessly mutilated the body. Blowing him up just ain't the same thing. You want the body of your brat in one piece… you'll know where to find me. You got fifteen minutes to catch me. Starting… four minutes ago. Love, Unkie Joker  
  
Batman crumbled the paper and turned back to them. Cassandra had stirred a little, and was looking up at him.  
  
"What is it?" Leslie voiced, some of the impatience gone from her tone.  
  
The ball of paper fell from his hand. "Jason…" Why had his mouth suddenly run dry?  
  
Leslie stared at the crumbled ball. She didn't have to read it. "It's a trap," she informed him. Why taunt him with Jason now, when he had other, living heirs to go after?  
  
"Of COURSE it's a trap," Batman responded, beginning to gather weapons from Batgirl's vault. "But I have to go. If I'm quick… I can end this." His belt re-equipped, he knelt beside them. "Cassandra… thank you," he told the girl.  
  
Her dark, swollen lips pulled back in a smile.  
  
She wasn't just one of his soldiers. Thank God the Joker didn't know that—or he'd have done worse. Turning away from her, he dashed to the surface as fast as possible. If he could catch the Joker at the cemetery, he could end this. He could finally begin being proactive, instead of reactionary.  
  
When he got hold of the Joker, he'd be very proactive. Proactive to the end of breaking every bone in that sick clown's body.  
  
Continued in Part Eleven  
  
'…I will instill terror into the hearts of the Unbelievers: Smite ye above their necks and smite all their fingertips off them' --Koran 


	12. Chapter Eleven

Who's Laughing Now?  
  
Chapter 11  
  
**  
  
The type of jester kept by nobility often reflected the temperament of the lord of the manor. Many fools were rude and licentious while others were well spoken, learned, and capable of acute observations. Still others were hideously deformed or gluttonous beasts. –The Fool Throughout the Ages  
  
Robin was sitting on the floor in the hall again, his knees pulled up to his chest. He'd renewed his residence there after returning from the down stairs portion of the manor. He hadn't slept well in a week, and the events of the last evening had caught up with the young man. He was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes opened and focused on the bedroom.  
  
Alfred was in the process of getting Barbara situated in the cave. She'd ranted and raved until he'd given her permission to assist the current situation from the 'sub-basement,' as Alfred called it in front of others.  
  
It had been decided through little talk and much more action that the cave was more secure than their current surroundings, as the Joker had already been in the house once, but there'd been no evidence found of him as of yet in the 'sub-basement.'  
  
Dick, who'd somehow managed to remain asleep during Barbara's last tirade, was still laying on his back, a broken mess. The bullet had made a clean brake through the bone in his upper arm. His ribs had seen better days. Leslie had previously contemplated keeping the young man awake and suffering, but he'd fidgeted too much as she tried to put his broken body back together, and had medicated him into unconsciousness before leaving with Bruce to tend to Cassandra.  
  
Tim didn't know how he felt about that. Batman had to do what he had to do—but he didn't cherish the thought of being this… unprotected. The last time he'd faced the Joker alone, it had taken nearly a week to figure out how to take him down—and even then he'd needed to be devious and use the element of surprise in his own favor. Now? Surprise was NOT on his side.  
  
Hence his continued and failing efforts to stay awake. He really only needed to manage it until Dick was in the cave too, then he could relax a little. Just a little.  
  
He realized he'd fallen asleep when James Gordon suddenly appeared in front of him. "Where's Barbara?"  
  
How did one answer that, really? "Alfred can--" Oh bloody hell. "He should be back here in a few minutes." He'd gone to help Barbara get herself set up in the cave, and HE could talk to Gordon about it. Robin decided he'd really rather not know anything about anything.  
  
Bruce had left fifteen minutes ago. He should get to Cassandra's hidey-hole in about five. Hopefully he'd get an update then. Hopefully he'd get a little piece of mind, too.  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
The green glow of the Cave's computer system was cold and harsh, perfectly suiting the user's mood. "I'll draw and quarter them both," Barbara muttered to herself, getting past the Cray's security system. "I mean, who the hell do they think they are? Then Dick's going to bat his eyelashes and go on and on about how it was for my own good, to save me from the emotional torment--" She stopped muttering as soon as the appropriate files were opened, and she began reading. There certainly was enough paperwork. And at first glance—none of it made much sense.  
  
"I share your sentiments, Miss Barbara," Alfred said as he began his second trip to the evidence table. "I would have also liked to have been informed." That was all Alfred said on the matter, but she supposed he was critical mass angry as well.  
  
She leaned closer to the keyboard, getting the best cursory glance at all the information as she could. Barbara Gordon was not a woman who enjoyed being left behind, no matter what reason was given. Like it or not, she was part of their world. She had inserted herself once as Batgirl, and she'd done so again as Oracle, and neither of those self-righteous bastards was going to shut her out.  
  
Then they got Timmy to do their dirty work for them, hacking into her system, messing with her Arkham feeds—she's figured out what they were doing. The kid was loyal to a fault, and as much as she'd like to lump him into a group with his mentors, it wasn't his fault that Bruce was a bastard, and the man she loved was far too capable of following in his father's footsteps.  
  
What was with the list of contractors? Half of them had been subcontracted to do small portions of the manor during the reconstruction after the quake. . If they had told her what the hell was going on—she wouldn't be playing catch-up now. But that wasn't her knights in dull, mottled armor.  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
His parents and Jason were buried in the center of a long, paved path. It was tree-lined, and a comfortable, relaxing place to sit and visit on sunny days. At night, it was hidden by twisting, angular shadows that spiked around the gray stone markers like fierce protectors.  
  
Bruce seldom visited during the day.  
  
The Car came to a quiet, yet hastily made stop at the larger road that connected with said path. The door opened, and a solitary figure quickly surveyed the area, finding no sign of trap or intrusion. Cautiously, the black Bat withdrew fully from the vehicle and melded with the twisting, leering shadows of the full oak trees.  
  
Catching sight of a flicker of yellow from the granite gravestone, he quickly approach, a certain amount of doom catching in his heart.  
  
Stepping past the undisturbed tomb belonging to his parents, he glared at the ominous image before him. Just below Jason's name was a solid, blocky R spray painted upon the stone, similar to the one adorning the restitched costume in the cave—with an ugly X going through it. Below it were the words 'One down, two to go.'  
  
Batman's gut—Bruce's gut twisted. This wasn't a trap. This was a diversion.  
  
Continued in Chapter 12  
  
"Perhaps the Fool represents a part of Lear himself; the part of his mind that knows what he's doing is wrong, and the part that speaks what Lear cannot. It could more or less be called his wisdom, in that case."- Discussions on King Lear 


	13. Chapter Twelve

Who's Laughing Now?  
  
Chapter Twelve  
  
**  
  
Medieval moralists and theologians thought of the fool as an object of scorn. His deficiencies doomed him to make mistakes during his life on earth. –The Fool Throughout the Ages  
  
~*~  
  
From the harbor, the city lights glowed with unusual ferocity. Their usual orange din seemed to be quickening to amber, like a bulb about to extinguish. Their fiery illumination glared against the inky black of the mud-clouded river waters. It was a sixty-watt bulb, eking out its last bit of life. The flush of the city flickered once, then extinguished. The initial perception was that the entire world had plunged into darkness, but beyond the cliffs of the coast, the haze of down town lights glared against the horizon, making their plight known.  
  
All the way down the water, radios were ablaze with talk—all of the lights from Bristol to Tricorner were extinguished. It was far more than one grid, and there was little telling what had precipitated the blackout. Some feared another quake, but the seas were too calm and the night air too still.  
  
In houses off of Coast Shore Drive, many people lay asleep. A few insomniacs lit tea candles, drinking in the gutted fumes and pondering their dead TV boxes. Basking in the last bits of radiation from their sets, they contemplated the prospects of their lonely beds.  
  
Under the wooden porch of an over-painted, run down Victorian, an elderly dog of moderate size and failing health howled. Above him, a bevy of hissing bats took to the cool night air, their home uncharacteristically disturbed.  
  
* * *  
  
The lights in the cave did not flicker, they simply extinguished as their power source died. The Crays computer hesitated as the backup generator spun to life. Turning in the oversized chair, it creaked once as Barbara questioningly glanced at the figure at the top of the steps. In the near- absolute darkness of the cave, she could feel Alfred's eyes searching hers, on the off-chance that SHE had caused the sudden fluctuation in power.  
  
"What was that?" she finally dared to ask. Looking around, she waited for other emergency systems to power back on, but they failed to.  
  
"I think we'd do best to inquire as to the condition of the household," Alfred suggested. He'd been on his way back up to see if he could roust his other charge enough to get him below. Now that they were out of immediate medical danger, it was his duty to get them out of possible physical danger.  
  
Pulling upon the metal door behind the grandfather clock, he was surprised when it didn't budge. "We may have to power down the computer, Miss."  
  
Barbara rubbed her eyes, trying to think of some solution. "Let me guess… the backup generator for the Crays also powers the security door."  
  
"Only when the auxiliary power system is disrupted."  
  
"Why do I have a really bad feeling about this?" Barbara asked as she began typing. As if somehow triggered by her worry, the bats in the cave chirped their discontent, and then fled.  
  
* * *  
  
Shortly after their conversation ended, several seconds later in fact, Jim noticed the boy's head leaning against the wall, and half of a snore escaping him. Looking through the doorway into the now over-used bedroom, he caught the faintest of movements from a fidgeting Dick Grayson. That kid should have known better. He expected a lot of things from a lot of people, but he thought that he could rely on him not to place Barbara in physical danger. He thought he could trust the boy to refrain from falling into behavior characteristic of certain… other parties he knew.  
  
With a sigh, Jim shook his head. It was as much a fault as an endearing quality, he supposed.  
  
Deciding he didn't wish to wait any longer, he found the stair well that lead down to the main floor of the house. He wasn't entirely certain he could find his way, or Alfred once he got down there, but he wanted to check this alleged security for himself. His nerves were too wracked to sit next to an underage, exhausted vigilante for much longer. There was also an old adage that continually played through his mind—the one about being a sitting duck.  
  
The antique carpet ended at the top of the steps. Taking his first step onto the hardwood floor, he heard the clacking of his own shoes, and then a slight buzz as the lights dimmed then went out. Looking around for a light switch he heard an excited breath that was not his own.  
  
"You make it so easy, you know," came the sotto voce declaration from the Joker, just as two bony hands connected with his back and shoved him forward.  
  
There wasn't the usual scuffle associated with a tumble down the stairs, the Joker noted. He hadn't even pushed ol' Beacon of Justice that hard, but somehow he'd practically flown through the air before crashing into the huge metal potter at the corner of the landing.  
  
Satisfied with his work, he swiftly turned back to his precious sleeping little one, who was just begging for it.  
  
  
  
Continued in Chapter Thirteen  
  
It appears that a natural fool couldn't rid themselves of their office when they tired of it and was to serve until royalty freed them from their obligation. Although an artificial fool could abandon their role when he eventually grew weary of it or it no longer suited him. –The Fool Thorughout the Ages 


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Who's Laughing Now?  
  
Chapter 13  
  
**  
  
It appears that a natural fool couldn't rid themselves of their office when they tired of it and was to serve until royalty freed them from their obligation. Although an artificial fool could abandon their role when he eventually grew weary of it or it no longer suited him. –The History of the Fool  
  
~*~  
  
"The BAD news is, the router is dead." Barbara didn't know HOW the router was dead, it should have had it's own back-up power source. "I could have worked around it, if I was mobile," she added bitterly. They now lacked a connection with the other networked resources in the cave, in addition to the outside world.  
  
"And the good news?" Alfred was hardly an optimist. He considered himself pragmatically by nature, but at this point, he was looking for SOME sign of encouragement.  
  
"The good news is that both grids that the cave is on are out. The house is probably out too. I have no idea why the backup generators haven't kicked on." It wasn't really good news. Actually, it was probably worse news.  
  
They'd abandoned the idea of turning off the cave's computer in order to disengage the magnetic locks because they didn't wish to leave the cave completely defenseless, in light of whatever was transpiring above them. There was also the issue of the shear magnitude of difficulty involved in disconnecting the massive machine from its power source.  
  
Alfred took off his coat jacket. "Then I need to start looking for alternate ways out of the cave." Which would be exceptionally difficult—the cave's security magnetically sealed most of the usual entrances and exits incase of just such an occurrence.  
  
He hated rock climbing.  
  
* * *  
  
In his sleep, Tim could hear movement in the house. His eyes snapped open, hoping it was some figment of his imagination, but knowing it probably was not. As he did so, there was the faintest of movements in the air, and he raised his hands, just before trouble struck.  
  
A wire closed around his jaw, and barely refrained from tearing into his neck by the presence of Tim's right hand. The thin metal dug into the left side of his neck, and the pressure tore into his glove and the flesh of his hand. His knuckles were doing just as sufficient of a job of cutting off his air supply as strangulation alone. He could only be glad his head was still attached, briefly thinking of the young man at the diner.  
  
His free hand reached behind him and grabbed the hair of his assailant, but he lacked the leverage to do much about it. "Damned little kids…" a voice muttered in his ear. "Shoot the big one, and he gets another brat. I kill that one, and then he gets you. Don't do ANYTHING to you, and he gets the girl…"  
  
During his tirade, Tim managed to get his feet under himself enough to almost stand. Unfortunately, his head was exploding, and he was finding it difficult to get his bearings. He let out one strangled grunt of protest, and then went limp, hoping that the Joker would let go. Regrettably, it was very close to not being an act.  
  
"He thinks this is about you," the Joker pointed out, not easing up in the least. "It's not about you. This is about how it's not about you!"  
  
"Leave him the fuck alone!" cried a gravely voice, tearing from the bedroom.  
  
'Great', Tim thought as he lost consciousness… 'Dick's going to get himself killed trying to save me.'  
  
"And YOU!" The Joker hollered, turning with Robin still in his grasp. "You're running out of limbs for me to shoot you in!" He throttled the boy once. "You like this? I wanted to rip his head off like a lump of clay. Mold me something outta a lump of Rob--"  
  
Using his only weapon left, Dick hurled himself at his adversary. His broken body gave painful cries of protestation as their masses collided. Just before they crashed to the floor in a painful heap, the Joker let go of Robin, and the boy slid down the wall, his own body bleeding and bruised.  
  
The Joker kicked Brat Number One in his already fractured ribs, pushing the body off of his. "That's it. I've HAD it! We do NOT treat our elders like this, young man." Drawing out a knife, he knelt next to the broken heap that was Dick Grayson. The boy didn't know whether he was a bird or a bat, but the Joker didn't think he looked like much of anything, his ribs and arm disfigured by the struggle, his nose and mouth bleeding profusely. He'd make something out of the boy that the Bat wouldn't soon forget…  
  
The blade was as long as his forearm. It flickered and danced with evil intent in the moonlight. Grabbing the young man by the hair, he hoisted his stunned and blinking victim slightly off the ground. The tip dug into the boy's chest, producing a thin trickle of blood. "And here's what I am going to do about it." Grayson's eyes closed, and what little rigor was left in his body melted like margarine on a summer's day. "Fine. Be that way. But there's no rule that says I can't mutilate your body." Tightening his grip on the knife, he prepared to twist the blade into the boy's chest.  
  
"I don't think so," a snarling voice ground out from behind the boy. How'd that window get opened?  
  
Releasing the knife, the Joker realized that the fun was just beginning.  
  
"I've gotten three Robins, and I'm almost two for two on the Batgirls," Joker pointed out with an innocent grin. He dropped the limp figure in his hand, and it fell to the carpet with a thud. Backing up, he laughed, thinking of the good times he'd had. "Now if the stupid girl hadn't gone scampering off, THEN I could call it two for two. The ladies are so much more… hospitable when they're pumped full of…urk…" Batman's hand had grabbed hold of the Joker's throat.  
  
He hoisted the beast into the air. The clown weighed nearly nothing, Batman noted as he tossed its foul caracas down the steps. He didn't thrust the body towards the landing—he picked it up over the railing and sent it careening down the second flight of steps.  
  
"Ok. That wasn't very nice," the Joker called out from the ground, rubbing his neck. The Batman landed on his chest, crushing him into the marble tiling on the first floor. "I did you a service!" The Joker cried out in a rushed breath as all the air left his lungs.  
  
Slamming his head into the marble once, Batman picked the stunned maniac off the ground by the throat again.  
  
The Joker's pasty, thin hands wrapped around the grief-stricken Dark Knight's glove, trying to relieve some of the stress upon his neck. "Uk…Bats…They weren't good for you! It's better with them gone…"  
  
Batman rammed the Joker's back into the banister. How many times had Dick slid down or leapt over it as a child? Jason had been trying to follow suit once, and had landed on his head.  
  
His voice ground low with bleeding pain, like chewing glass. "How DARE you touch what is mine?"  
  
"NO!" The Joker cried out angrily. "How dare you RUIN what we had!"  
  
Batman punched 'it' in the face, trying to make 'it' shut up. But the clown persisted.  
  
"I did all this for you! For us! So you'd see that you belong to me. And I belong to you."  
  
Grabbing the clown by his magenta shirt, he hoisted the foul thing into the air, and then paused. "WHAT?" some part of him, beyond the rage and agony wanted to know why this was happening.  
  
The blood-smattered cheeks of the Joker pulled back in an even wider grin than usual. "See, you know it's true. This wasn't about them. It's about you and me. And they got in the way of something beautiful." Still Batman remained frozen. SOME reaction would have been nice. "We had it good. You and me. We had the ultimate two-man act. You were the straight man, I was the funny man. Abbot and Costello. Lucy and Dezzie, but we don't sleep in twin beds. But we were better than that! The World's Greatest Detective, and the World's Funniest Villain, in a battle to the death! It was drama! It was comedy! And then those damned little brats showed up. And I couldn't get rid of them. It was worse than cockroaches, rats and lice, all rolled into one. So I did it. I did it all. ME. All by myself. It's amazing what the right contacts, a LOT of time, and a butt-load of Ritalin can do."  
  
Suddenly, Batman's other hand snapped out, grabbing the Joker by the throat, instantly ceasing the airway, stopping the evil clown's incessant blather. "You REALLY thought that this would go unanswered?" Now he'd do what he should have done a long time ago.  
  
* * *  
  
Alfred checked the battery-operated communications equipment one more time when he got to the top of the cave steps. The small lantern atop his helmet bathed the area directly in front of him in tawny illumination, about the only to be had in the cave at that time. He looked at the catwalk that lead to the elevator, and the shaft above it.  
  
"Do you have me?" Oracle asked in his ear.  
  
"I do," he confirmed.  
  
Suddenly there was the cracking and breaking of wood on the other side of the cave wall. "You REALLY thought that this would go unanswered?"  
  
"Oh dear," Alfred said mildly, but the fear was too evident in his voice.  
  
"We have to get out there," Barbara's voice whispered into his ear via the communications system. She'd apparently heard the outburst via his microphone.  
  
Alfred hastened his pace to the elevator and prepared to unscrew the bolts that locked the access panel to the elevator shaft.  
  
Turning back to the computer, and her attempts at getting a connection with the outside world, she prayed they'd be quick enough. She didn't know what was happening, or what had already transpired—but she was the only one allowed to kill Dick. And if anyone else interfered… well, she didn't know what she'd do. How she'd keep going. "Please get there in time," she whispered as she initiated the archaic practice of dial-up.  
  
Barbara just wanted to hurt him one more time herself. That's all she asked for.  
  
* * *  
  
Why wasn't the Joker afraid?  
  
Bruce thought he should be. That jackal was, after all, moments away from death.  
  
He hadn't remembered entering the study, but it seemed somewhat fitting that it ended where it all began. Still with the Joker's throat in his hand, he pushed the fiend's body onto the hardwood desk. He wanted to make this painful. Breaking every bone in the Joker's body would do.  
  
An imagine flashed in his mind, Tim's figure, lying crumpled on the floor, his throat partially slit. Dick's inert body, and the puddle of blood. It was both of theirs, mixing on the carpet. Jim on the steps.  
  
Breaking all the bones in the Joker's body before delivering him to higher judgment wasn't enough.  
  
Bruce grabbed the Joker's fingers and sharply pulled them backwards. There was a snap and a pop, and the Joker's strangled, but somewhat satisfied cry.  
  
It wasn't enough—but it was a start.  
  
  
  
CONTINUED in Chapter 14  
  
Once a jester displeased his master, he did not, according to popular belief, face the chopping block. A jester was only put to death after committing a crime. He then would have been burned at the stake or drawn and quartered depending on the offense performed. The block was reserved for those of noble blood and then only if they committed treason. There is evidence of fools who had displeased their masters and were severally beaten. In some cases, they were beaten to death. –The History of the Fool 


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Who's Laughing Now?  
  
Chapter Fourteen  
  
**  
  
He turned a man into a fool, and a game into a nightmare –To Kill A Clown  
  
~*~  
  
The gurgling, drowning cry of the Joker, and the wet cracking of bones was what woke Jim Gordon. Sitting up, he rubbed the terrible, painful spot on his neck, where his head had come into contact with the brass planter.  
  
Attempting to orient himself in the darkness, he grabbed hold of the cold edge of the planter with one hand, and the thick stock of the plant, which resided in it, getting from his knees to his feet. He glanced up the remainder of the steps, then down again, gauging the situation from his location on the landing. His first instinct was to go down the steps, and into the mêlée of whatever was transpiring below. Instead, he grabbed hold of the railing and dragged his shaking body upward, towards the two lifeless figures lying just within his sight.  
  
* * *  
  
The library was lit by the moon and little else. In the chilly darkness, Batman continued his assault. Slamming the Joker's body against the edge of the desk, Batman felt sick and satisfied as the left humerus broke. His heart was heavy and dying, and his only intelligible thought was that he wanted the Joker to die too. He tossed the wiry, broken body onto the floor.  
  
A thousand partial thoughts passed through his head, none of them able to bring themselves to his lips. Images flashed in his head, but nothing he could grasp hold of. Just the aching concept of loss. The sight of their blood.  
  
He picked up the Joker by the shirt, crushing him up against the mantel over the cold and silent fireplace. A guttural cry of anguish escaped the Batman as his hand reached once again for the Joker's throat.  
  
Desperately, the Joker groped along the wall with his good hand, searching for something—anything to aid his plight. His hand wrapped around the brass poker, and he leveled it at the Dark Knight. The K shaped hook on the end caught the Bat square in the neck, and he took a step backwards, releasing his victim's throat.  
  
"I knew I could do it," the Joker rasped when he could finally draw in breath to speak again. Both staggered for a moment as the Joker swung again. Caught off guard and partially dazed, Batman barely missed being hooked by the poker again. "I knew I could get you to kill me. If the brat could, YOU could."  
  
Remembering the great sport Jason had been, he swung one more time at the Bat's head. Batman caught the poker, tearing it out the Joker's hand, tossing it away. It hit the floor and skidded until it hit the opposing wall, leaving a dent in the hard wood running board.  
  
"This is it," the Joker said as Batman tackled him again, crushing him against the hard wood. "The punch line. The end of the world's greatest stand-up act…"  
  
Batman's hands wrapped around the Joker's throat, but he paused, failing to deliver the crushing blow.  
  
"Go ahead."  
  
Locking his jaw, Batman didn't move.  
  
* * *  
  
Hearing the continuing altercation above, Barbara typed faster, trying to rewrite the subroutine that had been hacked to cause the power outage on every grid along the coast.  
  
"I'm very nearly into the house," Alfred informed her.  
  
"Good."  
  
There was the sound of great strain as Alfred attempted to pull back the panel that would give him access to the second floor of the house. "Whatever is transpiring, it is occurring in the library. I will conduct myself there immediately, unless you request otherwise."  
  
There was another crash, and Barbara winced. That idiot boyfriend of hers had just better be all right. It was her job to put him in his place. How dare he try to be thoughtful of her emotions? How dare he—  
  
As quickly as she could, she finished her modifications, praying it was enough, and in time.  
  
It suddenly grew very quiet up stairs. Alfred flew out of one of the spare bedrooms, where the shaft had deposited him, then to the hall that lead to the service stairs, and then the library. Very nearly to the top of the steps, he stopped, having almost tripped over two of his charges.  
  
Hearing sounds of finality below and knowing he could do nothing there, he dropped to his knees, and the two boys before him.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
"If you don't," the Joker rasped, "I'll just keep coming. I don't think I got all I wanted out of this Batgirl—yet."  
  
Picking the Joker up by the throat, Batman threw him several feet, into the desk again. The Joker's stomach hit the edge of the wood top, and the air rushed out of his lungs with painful release.  
  
Before Batman could do more, there was an explosion in the doorway. Fire flashed across the room like a bolt of golden lightening cutting through the darkness in a trail of silver smoke. There was a moan and a spray of blood as the bullet passed clean through, and the Joker hit the carpet with a protracted thud.  
  
Stunned, Batman stared at James Gordon and his smoking firearm, not daring to breathe. His own heartbeat felt like the clapping of a hammer in his chest.  
  
"He's not worth it," Gordon said finally; then the world seemed to speed up again. "If you kill him—he wins. If you let him live—everybody loses." Jim stepped into the library, inspecting his handiwork just as the lights ignited once more in the house, illuminating the reality of their situation with fiery clarity. "So who wins if /I/ kill him?"  
  
Slowly, the Joker's head lifted from the carpet that resided beneath the desk. "He has a point, you know," he said slowly, and then his head met with the Oriental rug with a soft yet finalizing thud.  
  
Continued in Chapter Fifteen: Epilogue  
  
To be, or not to be: that is the question:  
  
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer  
  
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,  
  
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,  
  
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;  
  
No more; and by a sleep to say we end  
  
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks  
  
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation  
  
--Hamlet 


	16. Epilogue

Who's Laughing Now?  
  
Chapter Fifteen—Epilogue  
  
**  
  
"This thing of darkness I  
  
Acknowledge mine."  
  
--The Tempest  
  
  
  
~*~  
  
The early summer day was drawing to a close, but Bruce Wayne did not begin to prepare for his nightly routine. He remained on the pink and black- stoned veranda, firmly planted in the wrought-iron chair he'd been sitting in for some time. He turned the page of the newspaper, continuing to read the article that had begun on the first page.  
  
His companion, who had been watching the sun continuing to hang lower and lower in the sky for in silence, finally looked to him, and the now-visible first page of the paper. He inspected the black and white photograph of Arkham Asylum for a few moments before choosing to speak.  
  
"Do you think they'll ever let that story die?" Jim asked finally.  
  
Bruce slowly closed the paper, consciously folding the sheets with careful attention. He glanced once at the headline and photo of the foreboding structure before addressing James Gordon. "One of their inmates turns up in his cell, still in his straight jacket, shot through the chest, not a mark on the straight jacket. I have a feeling it's going to be gracing the front page for a long time." Perhaps it would initiate the necessary reforms in Arkham and the system. Bruce wasn't holding his breath though.  
  
Looking out into the fresh, green landscape, he caught sight of Cassandra dashing between the trees, no doubt engaged in something he wouldn't approve of. "We got her to sleep in a bed last night," Bruce noted. "Which is easy enough when she's convalescing, but nearly impossible when she's up and about."  
  
"And I'm sure she was entirely unappreciative," Jim noted.  
  
"They always are," Bruce responded knowingly.  
  
Jim shook his head, knowing too much about fiercely independent young ladies. "I heard from Harvey Bullock that they finally found the guy whom the Joker paid to impersonate him during his little jaunts of freedom. Former orderly, of all things."  
  
Bruce nodded. He'd suspected as much, but hadn't had time to pursue it, of late. "I guess that's the last piece of the puzzle, now that they have the contractors and security personnel who were being used by the Joker through his invented persona." Bruce sighed. The clean-up had taken almost two months. He still wondered how the Joker had been initially put into contact with the contractors, but it might be something unanswerable at this point.  
  
Staring out at the cloud-laden sky, the younger man inhaled deeply, pondering recent events."Ritalin," Bruce whispered, shaking his head. It seemed all the stars had been aligned and every card stacked in perfect order to bring destruction, and that there had probably been the cornerstone.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing," Bruce said, looking over the front page again quickly. "Just something the Joker said."  
  
From inside the house, he heard the clattering of dishes. Alfred would be out soon with something to drink, he was sure of it. There were, indeed, a few constants in this universe. Leslie would be out with him as well, giving her usual host of disapproving looks. She and Alfred spent an inordinate amount of time together lately, he thought. There was the usual Friday 'restocking' meeting, as well as all of her too-frequent visits since that night.  
  
Another figure, also dressed in black, followed behind Cassandra in her romp between the trees. It was the beginning of July, and Timothy Drake was still wearing turtlenecks. The wound on his neck was healing, but not enough to permit more comfortable attire. He made his way around a thick oak, carefully maneuvering around a patch of flowers that had won some award or other. Bruce couldn't keep track.  
  
Cassandra dashed out from behind this tree as well, evading capture.  
  
Finally, an over-heated and disgusted Tim Drake looked back at his mentor. "Bruce, she has my wallet!"  
  
"Cassandra!" Bruce reprimanded.  
  
On the other side of flowerbeds and overgrown trees, a medium sized, yet somewhat stiff body stepped off the path that lay there and began searching for the girl. "Throw it to me!" Dick encouraged, reaching up with his right hand. He turned his body just a bit so that his casted and slinged arm would be out of the line of her fire.  
  
"Go ahead, idiot!" Barbara called out from the sandstone-lined path. "Break the OTHER arm! I think there're a few RIBS you haven't broken yet!"  
  
"Babs, God… I can still CATCH. It's a wallet, not a BOMB…"  
  
"So," Jim said, attempting to make a conscious effort at avoiding having to listen to the young couple bickering. "What did you do about the bullet embedded in the desk?"  
  
Bruce put the folded paper on his lap, also actively avoiding Cassandra and Dick's attempts at keeping the wallet away from Tim, as well as Barbara and Tim's active and sometimes loud protests. "I was amazed at what a few well- placed doilies could do temporarily," he said. "Long-term, there's a young man who will need to regain his manual dexterity. Refurbishing the desk seems like an ideal task."  
  
Jim had a feeling that Dick Grayson wouldn't agree.  
  
There was a familiar chirping as Tim Drake's cell phone began its siren call. Jim and Bruce were both a little surprised when Cassandra pulled the phone out of an oversized pocket in her her black cargo pants and answered it. "Hello?"  
  
"And she's a pick-pocket!" Tim amended loudly.  
  
"Not Tim's girlfriend," the girl announced. "Tormenter. More fun that way."  
  
Tim tore the phone out of the girl's hand. "No dad, it's not like that. She's not my girl—dad, it's not an S and M thing…" Desperately the boy looked up to the house. "Alfie!" he cried desperately, searching for someone to bail him out.  
  
"And you—you don't need to use every opportunity to act like an idiot," Barbara declared as she and Dick made their way back towards the veranda. She gave herself one good push so the chair would keep up it's forward momentum, then smacked Dick in his broken arm just enough for him to remember that she wasn't to be crossed.  
  
"I'm not sure if I should be calling the wedding planners, or the undertaker," Bruce noted mildly.  
  
"Probably both," Jim confirmed. The last two months had been a long string of scolding sessions from Barbara. She'd insisted on taking care of him at her apartment. No one was sure whether it was because she loved him and wanted to help him, or if it was because she wanted to ensure his recovery was as painful as possible.  
  
Tim, on the other hand, had received the best care from Alfred with torment being entirely limited to 'you should have been responsible enough to inform me, Master Timothy,' and a few other well-placed cuts. Bruce had arranged for Tim's father to remain out of town, thus missing a prime view of his son's sorry state. He and Cassandra were getting back into their work habits together, which probably accounted for their now overly- familiar attitude toward each other. Bruce was glad. Leslie had been right about one thing—it wasn't good for the young girl to spend so much time alone.  
  
Actually, she'd been right about a lot of things, but he'd never giver her that much satisfaction. Then she'd go thinking she was right about everything.  
  
"I suppose someone should tell Tim that she has the keys to his car, too," Bruce added, watching the young man secure his belongings in his back pockets. "She made the sacrifice of sleeping in a bed, I suppose I can let her have a little fun, though." He was learning to give a little to get a little. It was an arduous process, but it was working out.  
  
Dick pulled a chair away from the table so that Barbara could join them, then sat down himself. "I'd tell you she's not being nice to me," Dick announced, "but I know neither of you care." He rested his cast-laden arm on the glass table, shaking his head stiffly. His unfortunate 'skiing' accident had kept him filing paperwork for quite some time, and probably would for weeks to come.  
  
Alfred arrived at the sliding glass door, tray in hand. Leslie appeared to be on his heals. Entirely too much time, Bruce thought to himself. The more time they spent in each other's presence, the more time they had to plot against him.  
  
Seeing the crystal pitcher of cold lemonade, Cassandra and Tim forgot their squabble and made a V line for the veranda, anxious for refreshment. Tim already held the phone out to his savior, one Alfred Pennyworth.  
  
Bruce folded his arms over his chest and accepted their presence, all of them; so close and clamoring. His smile only went as far as a thin line spread across his usually expressionless face.  
  
The sun began to dip behind the cliffs at the furthest reaches of the Wayne property. Above them, the sky glowed an energetic plum and faded to radiant and fiery orange at the edge of the land.  
  
THE END  
  
"What's gone and what's past help  
  
Should be past grief." –The Winter's Tale  
  
  
  
Well, that's it guys. Thanks again to Patty and John for the occasional emergency beta. Thanks to Robin for reading and Charlene for listening to me whine. Thanks for sticking through this many chapters to the readers. I appreciate your kindness and attention. 


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